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Ube 

purple Xiabt of Xove 



HENRY GOELET McVICKAR 

AUTHOR OF A PRECIOUS TRIO, ETC. 



NEW YORK 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
1894 



■^“ 2-3 


Copyright, 1894, 

By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY. 


®l)e purple Cigl)t of Cooc. 


PART I. 

John Edgar, like young Lochinvar, 
^‘came out of the West” and settled 
in New York. He had received an 
excellent collegiate education, and 
had graduated from his law school 
with honors. His home had been a 
happy one — that is, as happy as a 
home can be where light-heartedness 
and a cheerful enjoyment of life are 
considered incompatible with true re- 
ligious fervor. His father and moth- 
er looked upon the commandment 
Keep holy the Sabbath day ” as a 

greater law than the one that reads 
( 1 ) 


2 


Purple Ciigl)! of Coue. 


“ Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thy- 
self.” Their small minds ran to the 
details of their religious belief, and 
his father was a veritable compen- 
dium of scriptural quotations and re- 
ligious “ Don’ts.” The dining-room 
was decorated with a worsted appe- 
tite destroyer which commanded all 
to “ Waste not, want not, grumble 
not.” Over the drawing-room door 
was suspended that time-worn invita- 
tion to the Great Father to “ bless our 
happy home.” One of John Edgar’s 
earliest recollections was having been 
severely whipped in the “ name of the 
Lord ” for inserting the prefix “ un ” 
before the word “ happy ” in this of- 
tentimes ignored request. His three 
sisters were, like their mother, phys- 
ically and morally upright to the point 
of unattractiveness. Each was a dull, 
colorless girl, and reminded one more 
of the tart persimmon than the lus- 


®l)c Purple Cigl)! of Coue. 3 


cious peach. These were the women 
in whose atmosphere John Edgar had 
been reared up to this time. Once, 
and once only, had he determined that 
some women were queen magnets in 
the world, and were possessed of a 
power over men that at times became 
supreme. On this occasion, having 
arrived at the mature age of fifteen, 
in full view of the whole Sunday 
school, actuated by a desire he seemed 
to have no power to control, he had 
deliberately bent forward and kissed 
his pretty teacher full on her rosy 
lips. 

It was shortly after this that he de- 
cided to leave home and accept his 
father’s invitation to attend a college 
in a distant State. His inability to 
interpose a proper defense to his ac- 
tion with the school teacher made his 
sisters insist that their parents should 
relieve them of any possible contami- 


4 Purple £i 9 l)t of €ovc. 


nation which might result from their 
living in sisterly intimacy with a low 
libertine. 

At the present time John Edgar 
had been ten years practicing law in 
New York city. He was thirty-three 
years old, but already an authority in 
railroad matters. His inside knowl- 
edge of these affairs, even when not 
employed as counsel, enabled him to 
speculate most intelligently, so he was 
now a person of property as well as 
parts. He had been a busy man and 
a taciturn man ; clever undoubtedly, 
not particularly sympathetic, as his 
own success had made him a disbe- 
liever in luck, and most appeals to 
one’s sympathy come from those who 
insist they are hounded by relentless 
bad luck. 

During these years he had had lit- 
tle inclination for wine and song, and 
for women he had had no time. 


®l)e Purple fiigljt of Core. s 


There had been few bits of color in 
his life, not even the light and shade 
that a keen sense of humor brings to 
its possessor. He took life and him- 
self both seriously. 

John Edgar was not strictly hand- 
some, but was a distinguished-look- 
ing man. His features were contra- 
dictory. His face in repose was hard, 
but when he smiled there was some- 
thing very human in it. 

The few times he had ventured into 
society he had practically confined 
his conversation to men and married 
women. The only house he really 
went to with some mild anticipation 
of pleasure was on Sunday evenings, 
when he occasionally dropped in to 
one of clever Mrs. Worcester’s recep- 
tions, composed of the under crust of 
society and the upper crust of Bohe- 
mia. Here he would with uncon- 
scious intuition talk to the clever 


6 0:1)0 J3urple Cigl)! of tovc. 


ones and ignore those who simply 
posed as such, and here he heard good 
singing by women of many grades of 
position ; but the fact that the notes he 
heard were purer and truer than the 
lips emitting them was of no more 
importance to him than to the others. 

One morning — it was about the first 
of August — he stood in his law office 
on one of the top floors of the Foreign 
Insurance Company, looking out of 
the window at the river and harbor 
below. In his hand he held an open 
letter which he read with a question- 
ing frown. 

“Newport, R. L, Elm House. 

‘‘ Dear Mr. Edgar : I have a few 
friends stopping with me. I want 
one more. (He is reading this letter 
now.) I know all about law courts ; 
they are all closed. New clients, just 
at present, are as rare as — well, as — 
unselfish men. You are debating in 


|)nrple of Cooe. 7 


your mind what to do to be saved 
from yourself ; and lo ! I step in and 
cry, Come to me and be amused. 
Leave on the one o'clock train Satur- 
day, and you will have an hour to 
dress for dinner. It is high time you 
became less of a lawyer and more of 
a man. 

Yours sincerely, 

''Sarah Worcester.” 

Edgar stood thinking for a mo- 
ment; then, seating himself by his 
desk, he wrote : 

" Dear Mrs. Worcester : You are 
right; you generally are. I am get- 
ting to be too much like a legal 
phonograph. I spent a good many 
years reading law into myself, and I 
have made considerable money talk- 
ing it out. I have no doubt that 
there are other things in your world 
better worth seeing and doing than in 


8 a:i)e pur^jle of tone. 


mine ; so I shall take the one o’clock 
train on Saturday, as you suggest, for 
your world, and hope to find it as in- 
teresting as I know it must be to have 
engrossed your attention for so many 
years. 

“ Faithfully yours, 

“John Edgar.” 

“Well, that’s settled,” he ex- 
claimed as he rose from his chair. 
“ I feel as if I were about to turn a 
corner in my life. I should like to 
have a peep down that new street; 
perhaps it is just as well that I can’t. 
One thing is certain, if I don’t like the 
looks of it I’ll turn back.” 

Saturday afternoon found him 
making his bow to Mrs. Worcester 
on the Newport wharf. As she lay 
back in her Victoria, it was easy to 
perceive that she was a buxom old 
lady, with a twinkle in her eye and a 


®l)e jpitrijle of Cotje. 9 


general appearance of never having 
been bored in her life. Even her dear 
departed considerately arranged the 
details of his ‘‘taking off ” just as she 
was beginning to tire of him, leaving 
her a fortune of generous proportions 
to do with as she pleased. The fact 
that she perceptibly rouged, and that 
the massive coil of hair that was at- 
tached to the back of her head had 
been worn by some other lady whom 
she had never met, never caused any 
one to doubt Mrs. Worcester’s sin- 
cerity. She always maintained that 
every old fright was in duty bound 
to make herself as presentable as pos- 
sible, by fair means or foul ; to re- 
mind youth of age was a crime, and 
to improve on Nature when Nature 
had ceased to improve on you was 
common sense, and common sense was 
next to godliness. 

“ Well, here you are, Mr. Edgar, 


lo 0:i)e Purple Cigl)! of Coue. 


and I am delighted to see you. What 
do you think of the delicate attention 
of my driving down to meet you ? If 
it does not flatter you, nothing ever 
will. My dear, we will be talked 
about! Won’t that be refreshing? 
And I shall be the first woman your 
name has been associated with. Pic- 
ture my pride — but jump in ; the din- 
ner can wait, but the horses won’t.” 

“One moment, Mrs. Worcester. 
What about my trunks ? ” 

“ Trunks ! Mr. Edgar, ah ! how can 
you be so cruel? Boxes, Mr. Edgar, 
boxes! Your boxes will be all right; 
I have had them attended to.” With 
that they drove off, when Mrs. Worces- 
ter, in consternation, cried. “ But, 
your man ! Where’s your man ? ” 

“ Man ! ” exclaimed Edgar, “ why, I 
am my own man.” 

“ But you must have a valet ; all 
men have valets nowadays.” 


(JI)e |)urple Ciglit of Cooe. 


II 


“ But I don’t need a nurse, Mrs. 
Worcester; the last one I had was a 
rugged, rawboned Western woman, 
for whose memory I do not entertain 
one iota of affection or respect. Why 
should I replace her after the lapse of 
so many years ? ” 

“ But it amounts to eccentricity,” 
said Mrs. Worcester, with a smile 
about her lips, “and eccentricity is 
bad form. The principal object of a 
man servant is to provide something 
with which the maid servants can 
flirt. But, never mind ; when you 
return to New York, remember to 
invest in one.” 

When dressing for dinner that 
night Edgar could not help noticing 
the luxury of the appointments ; that 
his “boxes” had been unpacked, his 
shirt laid out, with the studs in the 
buttonholes; that his shaving appa- 
ratus was ready ; that his silk socks 


12 Sri)e | 3 urple £igl)t of Cooe. 


were not to be sought, but were rest- 
ing most intelligently by his shoes ; 
and Edgar saw that it was good, and 
felt that it was good, to have a male 
nurse ; and he appreciated another 
side of life he had never envied 
before. 

The dinner itself was composed of 
a series of little messes that tried Ed- 
gar’s patience if they did not appease 
his appetite. He began to think lov- 
ingly of roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, 
and a bottle of Bass, and wondered if 
society were toothless, and so ate noth- 
ing substantial. 

The guests were the usual social 
humming birds, gorgeous of feather 
and small of intellect, but with an in- 
stinct that makes them know honey 
when they see it. Of course, there 
was a dubious German count, and a 
French author in whose books there 
was no one chapter that could have 


®l)e pur^jk of tone. 13 


been read aloud with safety even in 
this somewhat advanced company. 

Mrs. Worcester said she “liked to 
have a few foreigners about, they 
throw into such pleasant relief the 
clean minds and nice manners of 
American men.” 

As for the people stopping in the 
house, Mrs. Worcester had refused to 
tell him anything, saying “ he must 
form his own opinions.” 

He took into dinner a Mrs. Bar- 
nard, a young widow of about twenty- 
seven years of age. She had married 
an old man for his money, but he 
promptly lost most of it in Wall 
Street, and then died, leaving her with 
an income just large enough to clothe 
herself fashionably, with the exercise 
of some economy. As for her looks, 
suffice it to say she was beautiful ; as 
for her character, the reader must 
judge for himself. They were hardly 


14 ®l}e Purple Cigl)! of Coue. 


seated when she turned and, looking 
him straight in the eyes — she had a 
way of looking up or down into men’s 
eyes that made them nervous as to 
whether she might not read the 
thoughts with which her proximity 
generally inspired them — said : 

“ I feel greatly relieved. The doc- 
tors say it is very bad for me to have 
my curiosity remain unsatisfied long, 
and naturally I was curious” — this 
with a smile — “ for I had never seen 
one before.” 

Edgar knew little of women, but he 
knew no woman could have the face, 
form, and coloring of Mrs. Barnard 
without being a power among men 
for good or evil. Her first words 
puzzled him. 

Never seen one before ! ” he ech- 
oed. “ And what, Mrs. Barnard, is it 
you see now and never saw before ? ” 

“ What Mrs. Worcester calls you — a 


®lie ILigl)! of iLooc. 15 


misog — I can’t pronounce the word, 
but I know it means a woman hater.” 

Edgar laughingly replied : “ But I 
assure you Mrs. W orcester is mistaken. 
I am no woman hater. I don’t know 
enough about them to tell whether I 
should like them or dislike them. I 
have never had the time to find out.” 

“ Really,” said Mrs. Barnard, with a 
slight arching of the eyebrows, “ I did 
not know that men had to make time 
for the study of women. I had rather 
supposed that women took what they 
wanted and that men made time for 
other things.” 

“ That would naturally be your ex- 
perience,” said Edgar with a little air 
and grace that quite surprised him. 

“ Well, you must begin with me. I 
quite long to be studied. Besides, I am 
just the human book for beginners. I 
am positively alphabetical, I am so 

easy to read and to know.” 

2 


i6 ®l)e JJttrple CigI)! of Cooo. 


“ I am afraid it would take courage 
to open that book, and still greater 
courage to put it down,” murmured 
Edgar. 

“ The proper answer to that must 
be : If thy heart fails thee, read not at 
all.” 

Here Mrs. Barnard turned to the 
man on her left. His name was Ar- 
thur Overman. His face was as hand- 
some as his temper was ugly. He 
and Mrs. Barnard had seen a good 
deal of one another for the past three 
months. Before Mrs. Barnard could 
speak Overman turned, and, look- 
ing at her with a curious expres- 
sion of half love, half hate in his face, 
said : 

“ I congratulate you ; you seem to 
have him well hooked already.” 

“ I don’t understand you.” 

“Yes, you do, Rosalie, perfectly.” 

“ For goodness’ sake, man, don’t call 


QL\]c JJurple £igl)t of Cooe. 17 


me by my first name here, at a dinner ; 
somebody will hear you.” 

“ Well, what if they do? Haven’t I 
advertised myself as being in love 
with you sufficiently for all the world 
to know ? ” 

“ Yes, I dare say. But I have not ad- 
vertised myself as being in love with 
you, and a woman is not supposed to 
accord such a privilege until she does; 
besides, I only meant to permit you 
that honor once, and that was on an 
occasion when you looked so earnest, 
so sad, and, to be truthful, so hand- 
some I could not refuse you.” 

Oh, very well, Mrs. Barnard ; just 
as you wish. However, what I 
want to know is, what you intend 
to do with that man when you have 
him in the condition in which I am 
now? ” 

“ I have no intentions in regard to 
him at all,” answered Mrs. Barnard, 


i 8 CigI)! of £000. 


cutting short a sigh that was meant 
to seem a yawn. 

Yes, you have, and I know it, for 
you acted with him as you acted with 
me when first I met you. I was 
watching ; I saw your bosom rise and 
fall ; I saw you look at him as if )^ou 
had never seen a man, as if he were 
the first to awake your consciousness 
to the existence of another sex ; I saw 
your eyes tell him what it was too 
soon for your lips to speak ; I saw — 
and I know. And though I will bear 
much from you, as I have borne in the 
past, I won’t be driven in double har- 
ness with another poor fool.” 

This is what is called tearing a 
passion to tatters, to very rags! Is 
it not, Mr. Overman?” The voice in 
which this query was put was sug- 
gestive of a cool, temperate breeze, 
and seemed to lower the fever in 
Overman. “ Besides,” she continued. 


lJurple £igbt of Cooe. 19 


“ I should like to know by what right 
you presume to criticise me. I am 
not in your power in any way that I 
know of, and I am not your wife, so 
please remember hysterics in a man 
are unbecoming, and unasked criti- 
cism is distasteful to me. Would you 
mind giving me an olive?” 

At that moment had Overman’s 
heart been upon his sleeve it would 
not have been a pretty thing to 
look at. 

After dinner Edgar talked with 
Mrs. Barnard for an hour; then she 
sang, and the room was filled by the 
music of a voice that it seemed God 
must have given to a mortal by mis- 
take, intending it for one of his own 
choir. It was rich and round and 
came without effort, and Edgar’s 
heart beat time, and he felt suffocated 
and oppressed with it all. To him 
she was, as some one said of France, 


20 


Purple Cigl)! of Cooe. 


an “ absolute monarchy tempered by 
song." It was to him as if he had 
dropped from some other planet, 
where all was cold, gray, and silent, 
into a new world where all was 
warmth, color, and sweet sounds. 
The curtain seemed to have fallen on 
his intellectual side and risen on his 
physical self. 

That night he smoked a long time 
alone. First he wondered how it was 
that a woman whom he knew intui- 
tively was not wholly good could 
have such a voice. Then the picture 
of her as she stood by the piano with 
her head thrown a little back, her 
body swaying slightly as she sang, 
her eyelids pressed down a shade 
with weight of feeling, came before 
him, and he stirred uneasily in his 
chair. He remembered the look she 
gave him as the last note died away, 
and he rose and walked quickly up 


Purple Cigljt of Core. 


21 


and down the room. After a few 
moments he sank into his chair again 
and said to himself : 

“ Now, this is rank nonsense. I 
am a lawyer and supposed to be log- 
ical and analytical. Let us look into 
the thing and see what has happened. 
Well, first, I am a different man from 
what I was yesterday ; I have discov- 
ered pleasures and sensations in life I 
never knew existed ; I have felt more 
and thought less than I ever did in 
the same time before, and one person, 
and that person a woman, seems to 
fill the whole foreground of my ex- 
istence. The cause for this change 
is the woman above referred to. I 
don’t like the effect she has upon me. 
I am not sure I like her. I fear if I 
saw much of her I should make her 
a present of my will. The miller 
that buzzes too long about that lamp 
would not only singe his wings, but 


22 


®l)e {Jurple Cigljt of Cooe. 


commit his whole soul to flame. In 
fact, I am afraid I have turned a 
corner, but it is too soon to decide 
whether to go on or to turn back.” 

The next morning Edgar drove 
down to the Casino with Mrs. Wor- 
cester. The avenue was crowded — 
men in flannel suits and straw hats 
were driving light two-wheel traps 
in every direction; girls, sitting as 
erect and driving in as good form as 
the family coachman, were tooling 
their ponies along in perfect style. 
The sun, which had been behind a 
fog for two days, seemed to shine 
with redoubled vigor, as if to make 
up for lost time. All was life and 
gayety ; even the cut flowers in the 
florists’ windows looked up to the sun 
and smiled a welcome, for they knew 
their time was short, and the absence 
of their idol had seemed long. As 
they entered the Casino the band was 


®l)e Purple Cigl)! of £oue. 23 


playing one of the songs Mrs. Bar- 
nard had sung the evening previous 
and Edgar’s heart gave an extra 
thump as he recognized it. 

“ Come here ; I want to talk to you 
a moment alone,” Mrs. Worcester 
said as she led the way to two chairs 
beneath a shady tree. 

“ Do you know I am not altogether 
sure I did a wise thing in asking you 
up here? It is just like a man to do 
what no one expects and the reverse 
of what one would prophesy. Gra- 
cious! but you must be very inflam- 
mable ! Now, don’t look as if you did 
not understand a word I said ; you 
know perfectly well what I mean. 
Here you’ve only known Mrs. Bar- 
nard about fifteen hours, and you’re 
more than half in love with her al- 
ready ; and she is the last woman I 
should have ever expected would at- 
tract you. Now, don’t deny it. What 


24 ®l)e |)nrple Cigljt of Cooc. 


is the use? But let me tell you, my 
dear boy, you must look out — have 
your wits about you — and make up 
your mind what you want to do. If I 
did not want to marry, or I did not 
want to be unhappy, Td go back to 
New York, if I were you, before any 
more damage is done. Furthermore, 
don’t be so stupid as to be angry with 
me for speaking so plainly. I am an 
old woman, and I have cut my wisdom 
teeth. I know very little about Mrs. 
Barnard’s real character. She is a 
woman who never talks about herself 
to other women, in which she is quite 
right; however, I know I should pre- 
fer to be her friend than her enemy. 
Nor do I understand why she keeps 
that man Overman forever at her 
heels. He hasn’t got a penny, and 
she hasn’t enough for two. She can’t 
marry him, so why doesn’t she dis- 
miss him, unless, after all, she is really 


®l)e Purple Cigljt of Coue. 25 


fond of him ? I asked him up here at 
her suggestion.’* 

Edgar’s face had been a study for 
the last five minutes. First he was 
surprised at what he thought was 
Mrs. Worcester’s marvelous divina- 
tion, then a little annoyed at the 
privilege she had permitted herself, 
and finally pleased that there was 
some one he could talk to about her ; 
but at no time did his face express 
the same interest as it did when 
Overman’s name was mentioned. 
This was a revelation. Oho ! there 
was another man, and a handsome 
one at that! Somehow the thought 
made him sit up very straight. Turn- 
ing to Mrs. Worcester, and entirely 
ignoring all that she had said at first, 
he inquired : 

“ And have you any other reasons 
for believing that Mrs. Barnard is 
fond of Mr. Overman besides the sim- 


26 Qi:i)e JJnrpk £i9l)t of Cooe. 


pie fact that she permits his atten- 
tions? ” 

“ Oh, my ! oh, my ! what have I 
done ? ” exclaimed the old lady. “ This 
is simply dreadful ! Here you are not 
only going to have trouble with your 
heart, but you’re jealous, too. Dear, 
dear, this will be no drama in which 
for me to have a part. It’s sure to be 
a tragedy. Please, Mr. Edgar, 1 re- 
sign my role of leading old lady, and 
will take a seat in the orchestra if you 
don’t mind.” 

Just then a man by the name of 
Philip Truxton came and spoke to 
Mrs. Worcester, and Edgar had no 
chance to answer. This Truxton was 
the only intimate friend that Edgar 
had. He had met him when he first 
came to New York; and as they were 
both great workers in the same pro- 
fession they had many things in com- 
mon, and entertained for one another 


®l)e Cigljt of Cooe. 27 


a very honest regard and admira- 
tion. 

“ Hello ! you here, Edgar ? A drone 
bee playing butterfly ! Why, I am de- 
lighted ! It’s time you looked about 
and saw a little of the world,” said 
Truxton cordially. 

“Yes,” interposed Mrs. Worcester, 
“ I have heard some people call this 
world a ball of mud, but, I assure you, 
it has on its surface many fair women 
and many brave men ; and, unless 
one’s disposition is a mixture of 
wormwood and gall, it’s a very nice 
place to live in.” Then, turning to 
Mr. Truxton, she added : “ I am sorry 
I can not bring you home to lunch 
to-day, but we are all going to lunch 
and sail on the Seneca. Come in to- 
morrow, won’t you ? ” 

“ I will, with pleasure.” And 
Truxton joined the lawn-tennis play- 


ers. 


28 Qi\)c Pttrijle Ciglit of Cooe. 


“ I like him,” remarked Mrs. 
Worcester. 

“ So do I,” answered Edgar. 

“ He looks sensible.” 

He is.” 

“ He would not have fallen in love 
with Mrs. Barnard.” 

‘‘ Why, has he bad taste ? ” 

“ Oh, you’re incorrigible ! Come, 
let us join the others.” 

The Seneca was one of the largest 
steam yachts afloat, owned by one 
of the most interesting men in the 
yacht club. He was unmarried ; 
but knowing ones declared that 
they could name five women who 
had proposed to him, and been re- 
fused. As the gig containing Mrs. 
Worcester and Edgar pulled up to 
the gangway the shapely head of 
Mrs. Barnard could be seen bend- 
ing over the side. The moment 
they reached the deck, and had 


®l)e Cigl)! of Cooe. 29 


shaken hands with their host, Mrs. 
Barnard asked : 

“Where is Mr. Overman?” 

“He could not come, my dear; he 
had already pledged himself to lunch 
with some one else before we re- 
ceived this invitation. I wish you 
could have seen his face when he real- 
ized what had happened — it was al- 
most as black with rage as, for some 
unknown reason, Mr. Edgar’s is at 
the present moment bright with pleas- 
ure.” 

Mrs. Barnard smiled a conventional 
smile, but did not look pleased, as she 
knew Mrs. Worcester meant her to 
understand that she had “taken no- 
tice.” Mrs. Barnard was dressed very 
simply in something blue and white, 
and her ivory, opaque, veinless skin 
stood the test of sunlight so well that 
it was a pleasure to look at her. If 
the evening previous she had been 


30 ®l)e Purple Cigljt of £ot)e. 


suggestively Oriental, this morning 
she was refreshingly Puritanlike ; and 
Edgar found it impossible to decide 
which way he admired her more. All 
he knew was that it was a superb 
day ; that the sky was an inverted 
bowl of blue, with a big brilliant dia- 
mond in the center; that every one 
looked happy ; that his heart sent his 
blood surging and bubbling through 
him whenever he came within a cer- 
tain radius of a certain woman ; that 
he was exhilarated ; and that he 
thanked God he was alive. 

The yacht sped up the bay, where 
the water was smooth. Mr. Euston 
was too old a hand at entertaining to 
endanger the enjoyment of his guests 
by a trip outside into a rough sea. 
When Edgar found Mrs. Barnard 
again she was seated on a pile of soft 
cushions away aft. Some man was 
by her side, but their conversation 


®l]e JJnrple £i3!)t of Cooe. 31 


did not seem animated. When Edgar 
approached she turned to the other 
man, and said most sweetly : 

“ I am awfully sorry to trouble you, 
but won’t you get me a glass of 
water?” 

Then, when he was gone, she turned 
up her face to Edgar, and said, with a 
look as though she were a little hurt : 

Aren’t you going to speak to me 
to-day ? ” 

“ Why, of course,” he answered, 
immensely pleased, ‘‘but the other 
man will be back and claim his seat ; 
there is only room for one.” 

“ And if he does, it will be occu- 
pied.” 

“Well, won’t that seem a little 
rude ? ” 

“ Rudeness does not consist in tak- 
ing advantage of a man, but in not 
taking advantage of any offer made 
by a woman.” 

3 


32 ®l)e Purple Cigl)! of Cooe. 


So, with a laugh, Edgar dropped 
by her side. Just then back came the 
glass of water, carried by a man who 
looked as if he would like to take his 
usurper and drop him quietly over- 
board somewhere near the screw. 

“ Ah ! Mr. Tracy, thank you so very 
much ; you are the essence of kind- 
ness.” Here she touched her lips to 
the glass, and, with a side glance at 
Edgar, added : “You see this rude Mr. 
Edgar has taken your place ; but you 
must come back after a while and re- 
claim it, or my vanity will receive a 
fatal blow.” 

Edgar was speechless for a mo- 
ment, but when Tracy had disap- 
peared for the second time he man- 
aged to exclaim, “Well, upon my 
word ! ” 

“Well, what are you surprised at? 
What do you expect of an intelligent 
woman? I wanted to talk with you 


Purple of £oue. 33 


for a time, and here you are. It was 
better that he should think you rude 
than me, and he does. My invitation 
to him to return pleased him more 
than anything I would have probably 
said if he had stayed. He will come 
back and say unpleasant things about 
you, and I’ll defend you ; in the mean- 
time you’re happy because you want- 
ed to be with me. It strikes me this 
is all very reasonable, and you should 
be filled with admiration and not with 
surprise at my cleverness. Come, tell 
me what you think of the little book 
you opened last night. Do you think 
you will find it pleasant reading?” 

But, Mrs. Barnard, I have only 
had one good talk with you, and it is 
too soon to hazard an opinion.” 

“ Oh, I didn’t want an opinion, 
only a guess. You see, you’ve been 
watching me — I know that — and I 
think you can learn a good deal more 


34 Cigljt of £000. 


about people by watching them at 
first than by talking to them. You 
see, as far as you are concerned, they 
are a little off their guard.” 

“ But they can’t be off their guard if 
they are conscious of being watched, 
as you admit.” 

‘‘ Oh, how very literal ! I very 
much fear, Mr. Edgar — mark you, I 
only say fear — that you are a little 
obtuse.” 

“ I am not generally considered 
dull,” Edgar answered, but I am 
willing to admit that when I am with 
you I seem more heart than brains. 
There are times, I imagine, when the 
silence of the heart is more eloquent 
than the wit of the intellect.” 

“ Heavens ! ” thought Mrs. Bar- 
nard, “ this man is not apt to lose 
time! He is going to be painfully 
earnest and direct.” But to Edgar 
she only turned a sweet, sad face, and 


®l)e Jpurple of £ot)e. 35 


said : “ Ah, Mr. Edgar, I am not 
clever like you. I don’t know things 
as you do ; I can only guess at them. 
To me the heart and the brain seem 
one and inseparable. Where I gave 
one I should give both. But tell 
me something about yourself. What 
manner of man are you ?” 

Here Edgar told her the story of 
his life, and she saw the man for the 
first time in perspective — what he 
had been, what he was. To her it 
was like looking down through a 
tunnel of ice. It was all so cold 
and colorless. Then her turn came, 
and she told him how young she was 
when she married ; how her mother# 
since dead, had urged upon her this 
step ; how, as her life had been love^ 
less, she took it without regret. Her 
husband had been kind, but her mar- 
ried life had been so short and un- 
eventful that it seemed to her like a 


36 Cigljt of tone. 


vague memory of an incident she had 
experienced in another world. 

Edgar was touched, but, like all in- 
tensely honest people, clever or not, 
he could tell whether others were 
also sincere ; and he felt rather than 
thought that the pathos of the tale 
did not ring true. However, they 
got along famously, and Edgar real- 
ized that her power over him was 
vastly on the increase, of which fact 
she also was far from unconscious. 

Just then up bustled Mrs. Worces- 
ter, saying : “ So we have monopolies 
in society as well as in business ; you 
two should be ashamed. ^ Let your 
light so shine ’ for all, not for one 
alone. — Gracious ! I’m afraid that’s a 
religious quotation, and it’s such bad 
form to be blasphemous. But I didn’t 
mean to. That’s a child’s excuse, but 
I can’t help it. Come, now, and let 
me introduce you to some other peo- 


®l)e JJnrple Cigljt of Cooe. 37 


pie ; we are almost home, and only 
have a moment.” 

It was lucky they were almost 
home, for as Mrs. Barnard started to 
rise a clumsy sailor up aloft let slip 
from his hand a heavy block, which 
struck with a resounding blow on 
Mrs. Barnard’s foot. With a cry of 
pain she fell back on the cushions. 
Then followed great excitement. 

“ Is there a doctor on board ? ” 
was asked by every one. No, there 
was not. 

“ Take off her shoe,” cried one. 

“ Don’t touch her shoe ; it will 
serve to keep her foot in shape till 
a doctor can properly examine it,” ad- 
vised another. 

“ Now, just do, please, all of you, 
go away,” said Mrs. Worcester. 
“ Mr. Euston, won’t you ask your 
guests to go forward and play jack- 
straws, or anything they like, and 


38 ®l)e Purple Cigl)! of Coue. 


send somebody here with a little 
brandy ? ” 

But Edgar had already slipped 
away, and was returning with the 
brandy at the moment. Mrs. Bar- 
nard was not the kind of woman to 
faint, though she was in great pain ; 
she would have liked to have cried a 
little while, she suffered, but her eyes 
simply filled with tears, which made 
them look to Edgar like monster sap- 
phires set in diamonds. 

“ Can you walk to the cabin, dear, 
do you think?” asked Mrs. Worces- 
ter. 

Mrs. Barnard tried, but the pain 
was too great ; so she lay back again 
on the pillows, a little pale, but to 
Edgar, of course, more beautiful than 
ever. Mr. Euston had the yacht 
headed direct for home. He also 
had a chair rigged with ropes to one 
of the yardarms, so when they an- 


Purple Cigbt of Coue. 39 


chored, Mrs. Barnard was very com- 
fortably and carefully lowered into 
the gig. Mrs. Worcester and Edgar 
went in the same boat. When they 
reached the clubhouse Mrs. Wor- 
cester suggested that two of the sail- 
ors should lock hands and make a 
chair, but Edgar’s look of horror at 
the thought that any common sailor 
should come in contact with such 
loveliness silenced her. When the 
gig drew up to the float, Edgar, 
looking into Mrs. Barnard’s eyes, 
asked, with a slight tremble in his 
voice, “May I carry you?” 

“Yes,” she murmured. 

He stooped down and carefully 
lifted her ; as he raised her for great- 
er support she threw an arm around 
his neck. It was lucky Edgar was a 
man of considerable self-control or he 
might have dropped her. He was 
shaking with excitement. As he 


40 ®l)e Purple Cigljt of £oue. 


walked to the carriage he smiled 
grimly as he thought of his sisters’ 
faces could they see him now, but to 
him it was a journey like the path 
to heaven. He placed her gently in 
the carriage. She whispered in his 
ear, her mouth so close to him that 
he felt her breath : 

“Are you always so kind as this? 
Some woman is to be envied.” 

Then in jumped Mrs. Worcester, 
with a curious smile on her face and 
they were away. Edgar went back 
to the clubhouse and took the big- 
gest drink of his life. On his way 
home he stopped at a florist’s and 
bought some flowers. He had in- 
tended to get violets, as they were his 
favorites ; but somehow Jacqueminots 
seemed more suitable to her. By the 
time he reached home the doctor had 
been there, made an examination, and 
declared that there were no bones bro- 


®i)e Jpnrple £igl)t of CotJe. 41 


ken. The instep was badly bruised, 
and it would be, some days before 
Mrs. Barnard could use her foot. Ed- 
gar was delighted to hear this, and so 
for that matter was Mrs. Worcester, 
who had no great desire to have any 
one laid up in her house with broken 
bones for half the summer. 

As she said to one of her cronies : 
“ Of course I am pleased it is no worse 
for her sake, but I am greatly relieved 
on my own account also. You know 
how dreadful it is to have people ill 
in your house ; it demoralizes the serv- 
ants so. Then there is the doctor 
running in and out, nasty medicine 
bottles about, calf’s-foot jelly here, 
port wine there, and the general odor 
of a hospital everywhere. Oh, I’ve 
been through it once, my dear, and I 
have no desire for a second experi- 
ence.” 

No company was expected to dine 


42 ®l)e Purple Ciglit of Coue. 


that evening, and so it happened that 
when Edgar went into the drawing- 
room he found Overman there alone. 
As he entered Overman rose and, 
with mock ceremony, said : I make 
my obeisance to the hero of the occa- 
sion.” 

“ I am not conscious of having done 
anything heroic,” answered Edgar, 
slightl}^ nettled. 

“ I hear you carried Mrs. Bar- 
nard from the boat to the carriage. 
You must be quite proud of your 
strength.” ' 

“ 1 am not aware it requires much 
strength to carry an ordinary woman 
such a distance.” 

“ I doubt if Mrs. Barnard would be 
flattered by being described as an or- 
dinary woman,” said Overman with 
the suggestion of a sneer. 

“ You know I meant simply a wom- 
an of average weight.” 


®I)e |)ur|jU Cigl)! of fLovc. 43 


“ I don’t find anything ‘ average ’ 
about Mrs. Barnard.” 

“ Look here,” said Edgar, thorough- 
ly aroused and taking two steps for- 
ward, ** perhaps while you’re ‘find- 
ing ’ things you’ll discover a reason 
why you permit yourself the privilege 
of discussing Mrs. Barnard at all. I 
decline to say or to listen to anything 
more.” 

“ You may have to some day,” mut- 
tered Overman. 

Edgar was cool in an instant. 
“‘Have to,’ Mr. Overman, will be a 
new sensation for me. Perhaps I may 
enjoy it ; but I shall never have an op- 
portunity, I fear, until ‘ have to ’ means 
the same as ‘ wants to.’ ” 

At this point Mrs. Worcester sailed 
into the room and grasped the situa- 
tion at a glance. 

“ Are the windows opened ? ” she 
exclaimed ; and, seeing that they were 


1 


44 ®t)e |[)urple Cigl)t of £000. 


not, she added: “There is an air of 
arctic frigidity about this room that 
I don’t like ; perhaps you two men 
are responsible for it. If so, please 
don’t let it occur again. I am afraid 
of cold draughts.” 

There was a moment’s silence, then 
the others came in and dinner was 
announced. 

That evening Edgar walked down 
by himself to the Casino. It was a 
subscription-night dance. He stood 
in the doorway and gazed listlessly 
about. All the women seemed so in- 
sipid as compared to her ; they were 
pale flowers, she was ripe fruit. He 
realized that until his love for her was 
conquered or blessed the world might 
be womanless and he neither know 
nor care. One thing amused him as 
he looked about, and that was so far 
as the attention that he attracted or 
any notice which was taken of him 


®l)e Purple £i9l)t of £oue. 45 


was concerned, he might as well have 
been invisible. Society has only eyes 
for itself, and until one has become 
a factor in it Society remains uncon- 
scious of the existence of any one out- 
side its own membership. He lighted 
a cigar and strolled home. 

“ Yes,” he admitted to himself as 
he walked along, I love this woman. 
Whether my love is just the feeling 
I anticipated it would be when my 
time came, I can not say — I doubt it. 
However, there is the fact. Now, 
the question is, shall I permit this love 
to continue and grow, or shall I leave 
here, go home, and crush it out? If I 
could win her, could I make her 
happy, or would she make me miser- 
able ? Surely, in so short a time love 
can not reach such gigantic propor- 
tions as to outmatch one’s self-control 
— the growth of years ! Can one 
learn in a few days something that it 


46 Cigljt of Cooe. 


will take a lifetime to forget ? It does 
not seem reasonable. It can’t be 
true ! I do not feel as if I were past 
redemption, and I do not feel as if I 
could make the woman care for me 
in the way or to the degree I should 
wish. Better go home, my boy, and 
start fresh. You turned your corner 
sure enough, but you said if things 
looked dangerous you’d turn back. 
Now they not only look, but are dan- 
gerous, so I shall go home to-morrow. 
How I do hate to leave the field free 
to that man Overman ! However, I am 
no dog in the manger.” 

With which culmination to his re- 
flections Edgar threw his cigar away. 
For some moments he stood on the 
lawn facing her windows, through 
which he saw the light, with a very 
brave face and a very sad heart. 
Something in his throat choked him. 
“ Am I right, after all ? ” he thought. 


QL\)c Purple Cigi}! oi £oue. 47 


“ Which way lies my happiness ? Bah ! 
this wavering is only because I have 
come nearer to her. The secret of 
her spell is propinquity, but this is a 
battle where it takes more courage to 
run away than to stay. Good-night, 
my beloved. I will call you that once, 
anyway, and so to bed.” 

Mrs. Barnard had lain on the sofa 
in her own room all the evening. She 
also wanted time to think. Mrs. 
Worcester had run in once or twice 
with a word and a smile, and, finding 
Mrs. Barnard was in no pain, had 
flown to the conclusion, in her own 
quick way, that a little self-examina- 
tion on the part of the invalid would 
be a very good thing in its way. She 
liked Edgar, and would have enjoyed 
marrying him off to some sweet girl 
that would have been proud of him 
and made his life peacefully happy. 
For him to marry Rosalie Barnard 
4 


48 ®l)e iLiglit of £ooe. 


would have been, according to her 
notions, like throwing a lump of ice 
into a furnace. There were depths 
of Edgar’s character she had not 
fathomed. 

The truth was that the young wid- 
ow, looking the picture of grace as 
she lay fanning (the very movement 
of her fan was like a caress to the air), 
had had a hard life. Her father had 
always been poor, and she hated pov- 
erty and its privations. She married 
her old husband simply for his money 
and of her own free will. When he 
lost it she could hardly believe him. 
He stayed away from the house — 
poor old man ! — for three days before 
he could make up his mind to tell her. 
He had made the .saddest discovery 
a man can make in this life shortly 
after his wedding. His flattered 
vanity had led him to believe he had 
won his wife, whereas he had only 


®l)e Jputple Cigi)t of Cooe. 49 


bought her. On the third day, up 
through his troubles and disordered 
brain, burst that bud of illusion — 
Hope. 

“ She may love you a little,” it 
cried. “ Go to her — go to her. Tell 
her how you will begin again. Tell 
her how you’ll work and slave, and 
how you love her.” 

He went, and with his old eyes 
dimmed with trembling tears and his 
old heart big with the flower of hope, 
he told her. Not a word from her 
lips ; she only looked. And his eyes 
grew dry and the rose of hope bent 
lower and lower till it buried its face 
in the earth and withered. What 
could he do but die ? His soul went 
out in silence. She never spoke ; she 
stood at his side and watched the 
ashy dawn of a new life spread slowly 
over his wrinkled face. 

“ Oh, if God will not pity me. 


50 (El)e jpurpie Cigl)t of tovc. 


what shall I do? Oh, Rosalie, I’m 
so sorry, so sorry f ” 

Still silence — then death. 

Rosalie was not so brutal as her 
behavior would lead one to suppose. 
His news had simply frozen her, and 
he died before she could thaw. The 
sudden discovery that she had 
thrown her passionate life away for 
nothing had dazed her completely. 
To her it was too awful, too hide- 
ous for words. There had been many 
times since then when she had felt 
lonely and friendless and would have 
been glad of a kind word from any 
one, but she always remembered she 
had given no quarter in this world 
and must expect none. She had had, 
of course, more than one chance of 
marrying since her husband’s death, 
but none of the offers suited her ex- 
actly. She wanted youth, good looks, 
position, and money. Men possess- 


®l)e {JtirpU of Cooe. 51 


ing these four characteristics are apt 
to be rare. John Edgar possessed 
them all. Besides, Mrs. Barnard was 
quick and intuitively correct in her 
judgments of men, and she was aware 
that Edgar, though she had known 
him so short a time, was an upright, 
honest man ; that no matter what the 
provocation, he would never be cruel 
to a woman. This was what she 
thought of him — what she felt for him 
was to her quite unimportant. She 
liked him ; that was enough. Her pas- 
sions had lain undisturbed for years, 
like the bosom of an ocean in a calm. 
Never a ripple had ruffled their 
surface until she met Overman ; his 
lazy strength, picturesque appear- 
ance, and impetuous way appealed 
to her and attracted her. She was 
certainly not in love with him, but 
had he been rich, doubtless, so far as 
it lay within her power, she would 


52 Purple Ciglit of Coue. 


have cared for him. However, as 
she lay back on her pillows, glancing 
with keen delight down the length of 
her shapely figure, she thought to 
herself : 

'‘Ah, my dear Arthur, I’m afraid, 
notwithstanding your curly hair, 
your big eyes, your strong muscles, 
and your other manifold attractions, 
you must be relegated to the shelf — 
at least for a time. You see, you are 
guilty of the crime of poverty, and 
must be punished. We shall have a 
pleasant little scene when he learns 
I propose to marry Edgar. He will 
be in a towering passion. What 
fools these men be. They never 
know what is best for them. My 
marriage may be his opportunity.” 

The following morning Edgar wait- 
ed in until Mrs. Worcester made 
her appearance. Her toilet naturally 
took some time, there were so many 


®l)e JptirpU ILigl)! of £ot)e. 53 


little things to do that would have 
made an unsophisticated “ Maud Mul- 
ler ’* open her eyes with astonishment. 

“ Ah, my dear Edgar ’’ — she al- 
ways called men that she liked by 
their last name — “ why are you 
idling away your time with newspa- 
pers that only give one the horrors, 
with their murders, suicides, di- 
vorces, and general sensationalism ? 
I used to read two or three a day, 
but I had to give them up. Posi- 
tively, my otherwise pure mind was 
becoming saturated with impropri- 
eties, and I should have soon be- 
come a victim to suggested crime.” 

“Well, Mrs. Worcester, I wanted 
to see you alone before I went. 
That’s my only reason,” said Edgar 
quickly. 

“Went! Went where?” 

“ Home — back to New York,” he 
replied. 


54 T^nxpic of Cooe. 


Mrs. Worcester gave a prolonged 
“ oh ! ” and sat down on a chair, with 
her back to the window and the light 
full on Edgar’s face. 

“ I see, I see.” Then after a mo- 
ment she added : 

“ You’re right, my dear man ; 
you’re right. You are going to do 
something that your sex hates — that 
is, to not follow your inclinations, but 
be guided by common sense. But 
pardon me if I say you are, I think, 
doing wisely. You know, dear boy, 
between two intelligent people it is 
never necessary for them to say all 
they think; the other is sure to un- 
derstand without words. Of course 
this is not easy, what you are about 
to do, and it will be even harder than 
you think. The equanimity and for- 
titude with which most people can 
bear the troubles that come to others 
is truly marvelous ; so I don’t say I 


®l)e Cigbt of Cotje. 55 


shall lose my appetite over your mis- 
fortunes, but I do say I am truly 
sorry that you have any trouble in 
store or any wish that must forever re- 
main ungratified. I like you, Edgar; 
you are the all-round healthiest man I 
know. Your presence alone would 
purify a vitiated atniosphere. But,’' 
with a sigh and a smile she added, 
looking up at him, “ I don’t suppose 
because one is healthy one is bound 
to be happy. So don’t say another 
word, but come to me later in the 
season, when I shall hope to give you 
a pleasant time with pleasant people 
who will prove less exciting and less 
dangerous.” 

Edgar was delighted to have no 
further talk about the matter. He 
would have been still more pleased to 
have been able to keep his secret to 
himself. Mrs. Worcester’s frank busi- 
nesslike way of treating the whole 


56 ®l)e Cigl)! of Cotjc. 


affair grated upon him. As Mrs. 
Worcester moved toward the door 
she stopped, and, turning, asked with 
an upward glance to the floor above : 

“Does she know yet?” 

“ Not yet,” echoed Edgar. 

“ Hum ! ” said the old lady with a 
slight chuckle. “ It may interfere 
with her plans.” And with this, to 
her listener, senseless remark, she 
disappeared. But back she came in 
a moment. 

“Are you going by train or boat?” 

“ Train, this afternoon.” 

“ Well, tell the butler ; he will see to 
your boxes, and when you get to New 
York, remember to invest in a man. 
I’ll see you again before you go.” 

After giving instructions to the 
butler Edgar started on a long walk 
over the ocean drive. He was con- 
scious of a great sense of loneliness. 
To be happy is to share one’s happi- 


®l)e Cigbt of Cooe, 57 


ness ; to be in trouble is to be alone. 
He was learning this truth for the 
first time. He could not understand 
the fearful sense of desolation and de- 
pression he labored under ; he felt as 
if he were separating from something 
that had always been a part of his 
life. 

“ I’ve turned no corner,” he mused ; 

I’ve fallen over a precipice. Can I 
climb back? Alas, can I climb 
back ? ” But as he walked farther and 
farther away from the woman he was 
thinking of, his love for her became 
purer and purer, until he began to 
wonder why he struggled at all. 
“ Is she not all that other women are, 
and infinitely more. Has she not 
taught me to love — a lesson no other 
woman has been able to teach me? I 
know nothing against her ; every one 
likes her ; she is received everywhere. 
Would not any man be proud to see 


58 JJurple Cigljt of Cooe. 


her at the head of his table ? Besides, 
I — I need her to complete my life. It 
has been till now such a chilly life — 
like a room during a long winter with- 
out a fire.” 

Here Edgar turned and, resting, 
looked out over the sea — the sea 
that has a tune that fits every mood. 
Are you glad? and the waves laugh 
with you; are you sad? and their 
cold, monotonous swish seems in keep- 
ing with the troubles that beat upon 
your breast. But if the form of 
the woman you love is before your 
eyes, watch some rising tide make 
love to a single rock, and take a les- 
son in caressing. How the waves in 
gentle curves sweep up her sides, each 
time higher, that they may reach her 
lips, until at last they bury her from 
sight in their jealous love ! So Edgar 
thought and felt, and, rising, had al- 
most determined to remain and ask 


J}ur|3lc Cigbt of Cooe. 59 


the woman he loved to marry him. 
He knew from the last look she had 
given him that her answer, in time, 
would be Yes. 

But as Edgar walked home and 
drew nearer and nearer to the one 
who occupied his thoughts, his love 
seemed less lovely ; its purity as he 
approached her grew less, until once 
more he stood beneath her windows, 
when with a violent motion of his 
arm he seemed to fling it from him as 
unworthy, and strode through the 
door feeling like one who has parted 
with a vice that one had loved. 

That afternoon he sent up word to 
her that if possible he would like to 
see her for a moment. She sent back 
a message that at three o’clock she 
was going to move into Mrs. Worces- 
ter’s sitting room, and would be de- 
lighted to see him. So at three he 
made his appearance, feeling very 


6o 0:i)e JJurple Cigbt of £otJ^. 


nervous and depressed. There she 
was, the woman who had wrought 
this great change in him — at that mo- 
ment he could not have analyzed his 
feelings ; they were too complex 
for one unaccustomed to introspec- 
tion. 

“ Mr. Edgar, I consider this kindly, 
considerate, and altogether friendly ; 
come over here and sit down where I 
can see you.” (Edgar hesitated.) 
“ Don’t be frightened — I’m not an 
ogress, only a lonely woman who is 
delighted to have the one person she 
most wanted to see, come to cheer 
her.” 

One of Mrs. Barnard’s most dan- 
gerous moods to the peace of men 
was when she became womanly and 
her eyes claimed a right to sympathy. 
A man suddenly became aware that 
he was a great, big, hulking brute, and 
that she was something tender and 


®l)e £igl)t of £otJe. 6i 


fragile that timidly asked his protec- 
tion. 

Edgar at that moment would have 
given anything to have her tell him 
some one had been rude to her, so 
that he could have gone and fought 
whole regiments of men, if neces- 
sary, for her sake. He drew his chair 
closer to her sofa and asked her about 
her foot. She was watching him nar- 
rowly. Ignoring his questions, she 
said : 

“You don’t look well ; you are pale 
and seem worried ; what is the mat- 
ter?” 

He hesitated again — and she con- 
tinued : 

“ Mr. Edgar, we have not known 
each other long, but to natures that 
are sympathetic time has little to 
do with intimacy. Am I wrong or 
bold in saying that I think we two 
have learned to know and like one an- 


62 Cigljt of iLooe. 


other already ? If this is true, can you 
not tell me what is on your mind, and 
let me serve you if I can ? Should I 
fail ” — here she looked down and her 
voice was not so steady — “ you need 
never give me another chance ; I shall 
know I have made another mistake. 
Alas ! I’ve made so many ! ” 

Edgar raised his eyes ; they had the 
helpless, dumb look of pathos seen in 
the eyes of some dogs. 

I am in no trouble, Mrs. Barnard ; 
at least in none where you could aid 
me. I only came up a moment to say 
good-by.” 

It was a hard little look that crossed 
Mrs. Barnard’s face. 

Good-by,” she said ; “ and where 
are you going ? ” 

“ Back to New York,” he answered. 

She was thoroughly astonished. 
Her plans, as Mrs. Worcester had 
said, were indeed upset. “ He’s a 


®l)e Purple ILiglit of £oue. 63 


fool ! she muttered to herself ; “ does 
he want me to fall on his neck and 
propose to him f ” She determined, 
however, to give him another chance. 

“Why do you go, Mr. Edgar? 
Please tell me. Perhaps if you do, 
though you do not suspect it, I might 
aid you ; please tell me.” 

Edgar felt that if this ^ent on much 
longer his part of St. Anthony would 
have to be taken by somebody else ; 
he could not stand it. 

“ Indeed, Mrs. Barnard, I have noth- 
ing to tell ” — but here he wavered. 
“ I have something to ask.” 

Edgar would have been rendered 
speechless if he had known the com- 
motion this statement made in the 
woman's breast. Down went her 
head, and her fingers interlaced them- 
selves upon her lap. 

“ Ask me anything,” she whispered. 

“ I want — I want — ” 

5 


64 ®l)e Pnrple Cigl)! of f oue. 


Mrs. Barnard thought he never 
would say what he wanted, he stam- 
mered so — “ I want you to give me 
one of your photographs. I am not 
likely to forget you, but it would 
make me very happy if you thought 
me worthy of one.” 

Mrs. Barnard made the effort of her 
life in controlling herself. She did not 
know whether she was more angry 
with him than with herself. She had 
permitted him to surprise her into 
being a fool before herself. It was 
well she was looking in her lap, for, 
had he received the look she gave 
her hands, it would have annihilated 
him. In a second she was herself 
again, and answered : 

“ Why, of course, Mr. Edgar ; now- 
adays to give a photograph means 
nothing ; I will give you one with 
pleasure. I have not one here, but give 
me your address and I will send it.” 


®l)e Purple of £oue. 65 


Her manner now was positively 
cheery, and his correspondingly de- 
pressed. 

“ You must come and see me in 
New York. I go from here to Bev- 
erly, and from there to Lenox. But 
we are sure to meet again some time, 
ours is such a little world, after all. 
And now you must not think me rude, 
but the doctor will be here in a 
minute to see my poor old foot, 
and I must get back to my own 
room. It was very sweet of you 
to come and see me, and I appre- 
ciate it.” 

Here she stretched out her firm, 
white hand. 

Edgar rose and took it. His brain 
was in a whirl. It was so sudden ; he 
had not meant to go yet ; he had more 
to say. Again she watched him close- 
ly ; her eyes fairly glistened as she 
tried to discover a sign of weakness. 


66 0:i)e |3nrple Ciglit of Cooe. 


But no ; with some apparent effort he 
said the words — 

“ Good-by,” and was gone. 

Mrs. Barnard looked for some time 
at the door through which he had 
disappeared. She had indeed been 
surprised; she had totally mistaken 
the man, she told herself, and for the 
first time her feeling for him took on 
a personal coloring. All she said, 
however, was, He needs another 
lesson, and he shall have it.” 

Edgar reached New York that 
night. 


PART II. 


Edgar had not been back in the 
city two days before Mrs. Barnard’s 
photograph arrived, but with no note. 
He had hardly admitted it to himself, 
but he had so hoped she would send 
him a few words that, no matter how 
formal, he might forever treasure ! 
Again the distance he was from her 
purified his love, and great waves of 
sentiment swept over him as he 
worked ; and how he worked, all day 
and late into the night ! He never 
permitted his brains to be idle for a 
moment. He prepared all his cases 
for the next term of the courts. He 
even wrote a little pamphlet on rail- 
road law, looking up his authorities in 

( 67 ) 


68 ®|)c Cigl)t of Coue. 


the evening at the Bar Association. 
Truxton came to see him a number of 
times, but could not induce him to 
take any rest. These were sad days 
for poor Edgar: he was always alone, 
his life was a Sahara of silence ; he 
wondered how a man could think of 
two things utterly dissimilar and do 
either justice ; but he found that, 
though she was never out of his mind, 
his work was all logical and clever. 
What if her features came between 
him and his book, and he saw the 
printed page through a transparency 
of her face? He was glad to have it so ; 
it made him less lonely during this 
time, when life was nothing but a 
checkerboard of days and nights. 
What he wanted was sympathy, but 
his trouble was one he could speak of 
to nobody. Never in his life before 
had he had the slightest inclination, 
when worried, to lighten his cares by 


PtttiJk Cigbt of Cooe. 69 


sharing them with another. He had 
always said that “ such a course was 
the height of selfishness. If you have 
a joy,” he used to say, “you double it 
by sharing it with another ; but if you 
have a grief, to confide it to a friend 
is to help yourself at the expense of 
a fellow-sufferer.” 

To be philosophical is to take things 
that are sad gracefully, but to be con- 
stantly philosophical is to admit that 
life is forever sad ; and as time wore 
on, the strain on Edgar became great- 
er. His very action of having put 
aside the temptation of his own free 
will debarred him from sympathy, 
and as his reasons for resisting the 
temptation concerned a woman, he 
could not speak of them. He had 
thought for a moment of going West 
to see his family. He wanted to feel 
in his loneliness that he belonged to 
somebody, and somebod}" belonged 


70 @:i)e {Jttrple Cigl)! of Cooe. 


to him ; but when the idea of his ex- 
pecting tenderness from his “unco 
guid” at home struck him forcibly, 
he laughed at his folly and his weak- 
ness — as likely extract the milk of hu- 
man kindness from a cactus plant. 

This had been going on for some 
four or five weeks, when one day 
Truxton walked into his club and 
found little Isaac Benjamin Holmes 
seated in a corner by himself. This 
little chap had always been a great 
favorite with both Truxton and Edgar. 
Notwithstanding his Hebraic name, 
he apparently had no trace of Jewish 
blood in him ; in fact he was not a Jew. 
He was small, but with a sturdy frame, 
blue eyes, and light curly hair. He 
looked like a miniature Norseman. He 
was always jolly and companionable, 
and a sure cure for the “ blues.” 
When chaffed about his name, he 
would laugh and say : “ My dear boys. 


®I)e JJurple £i 0 l)t of Cooe. 71 


there is nothing funny about me ; I’m 
a very interesting character — very — 
I am a sort of a changeling, or rather 
my name is a changeling ; I am per- 
fectly sure the day I made my first 
bow to the public a little Hebrew of 
highly respected parents also made 
his debut. I believe we were chris- 
tened the same day, same hour, and 
that by some curious disturbance of 
brain waves he got my name of 
‘ Charles Henry,’ and I his of ‘ Isaac 
Benjamin ’ ; but do you know I never 
feel sorry for him, for I am confident 
his friends never chaff him about some- 
thing he could not help ? ” This gen- 
erally led to a sudden change of sub- 
ject. As Truxton entered, Ike looked 
up and called : 

Come over here, Trux. I want to 
ask you something. Will you tell me, 
in the name of all that’s blue in the 
heavens and green on earth, what is 


72 ®l)e Ptttplc £i9l)t of Cooe. 


the matter with Edgar? I saw him 
for the first time in an age yesterday, 
and he looked like his astral body out 
for a stroll. Is he studying to be a 
Mahatma, or is he wasting away ? 
That’s an awfully sad thing, to waste 
away ; you know my little fortune that 
my uncle left me did that, and I have 
never ceased to weep bitter tears to 
think I helped it waste.” 

“ I can’t imagine,” replied Truxton. 
“ I believe he is in love.” 

Now, by the nine gods, this is too 
much ! Thou dost much mistake me, 
Trux, if thou thinkest I have lost my 
wits as well as my fortune. Edgar 
in love! Yes, with some high ideal 
of duty ; some plan to regenerate the 
whole world ; or with some other 
even grander scheme — such, for in- 
stance, as to make me steady and sen- 
sible ; but in love with a woman, a 
mere woman, here to-day, gone to- 


®l)e Purple Ciglit of Coue. 73 


morrow ! Nay, nay ! I do protest — 
thou dost mistake me ; I’ll have none 
of it!” 

“ Then how do you account for it ? ” 
Don’t ask me anything about ac- 
counts just at present, it’s a very deli- 
cate subject ; besides, it always was a 
detestable word. I can’t explain it, 
but I do know that it behooves us as 
his friends to serve him with a sum- 
mons to come and dine with us this 
very night. He shall lock his troubles 
up in his jewel case before he comes. 
He shall look upon the wine when it 
is red. He shall realize that trouble 
is a relative term, and that there are 
men who will swap troubles with him, 
taking his, and give him a million to 
boot. No man has a right to think 
twice of himself until he has lost his 
health.” 

“ Good ! I’m with you. Let us 
compel him to shake hands with 


74 Purple Cifilit of Coue. 


himself once more,” exclaimed Trux- 
ton. 

Ike moved over to the desk and 
wrote : 

“ Oh, genial, jolly Johnnyhaha (I can 
not call you Minnehaha, for you are 
not a lady), will you not come with 
your silvery laugh and dine with 
me and Trux to-night here at seven- 
thirty? We are dull and sad; and 
noticing your wild hilarity of late, we 
want you to come and cheer us up. 
The bubbling effervescence of your 
gayety tempts us. Come with your 
harp, come with your lute ; but what- 
ever you do, ‘ come.’ Yours, 

“ Trux and Ike.” 

There,” he said, turning to Trux- 
ton, I think that is rather neat, par- 
ticularly ‘ bubbling effervescence of 
your gayety.’ Putting good words 


0^Iie Purple Cigl)! of Coue. 75 


together instead of good deeds is my 
forte. I should have written a book, 
Trux (this confidentially), but I never 
did. I made one instead; and, Trux, 
when I think of that book, where 
nothing stood to win and everything 
to lose, including myself, 1 am con- 
vinced I am not a born author.” 

Here, ’ he said, handing the note 
to Truxton,'** send this by an '■escar- 
got ’ — it is sure to fetch him.” 

An escargot — what’s that ? ” 

“ A messenger boy — French for 
' snail,’ don’t you know?” he ex- 
plained. 

When Edgar received this effusion 
he threw it on his desk and said : 
“ Dear little Ike — I’ve half a mind to 
go. I’ve tried work as a cure, and it 
does not seem to have brought about 
brilliant results. Why not try diver- 
sion ? When somebody described 
love to be the reduction of the uni- 


76 ®t)e J 3 nr|jle Cigljt of Cooe. 


verse to a single being, he presup- 
posed a mutual possession of the one 
lover by the other. Now, I am alone 
with my love, but not with the object 
of it. I think love is a disease which, 
if left alone, will cure itself, but if no- 
ticed and pampered proves chronic. 
I will try ignoring it.” 

So he went. 

Now, little Ike probably knew more 
about ordering a good dinner than half 
the men in town. His knowledge of 
wines was the pride of his life. He 
used to say : 

“ Everything in this world costs 
money. Now, of course, I know more 
about wines than other men, for I 
paid more to know. By a complex 
mathematical calculation I found it 
took about one third of Nunky’s leg- 
acy to make me the infallible judge I 
am, and I am proud I spent the 
money so wisely.” 


®l)e Cigljt of Cooe. 77 


So the food and the wines would 
have tempted the appetite of a man in 
love, or one who had just finished din- 
ner — which is saying a great deal. 

He had secured a table in the cor- 
ner where their conversation was less 
likely to be overheard. When Edgar 
entered the room, little Ike took a long 
look at him, and was more astonished 
than ever at his appearance. 

He looks like a man who had 
survived cremation,” thought Ike ; 

or one who had inhaled flame, and 
inwardly was nothing but a cinder. 
His eyes look like tiny volcanic 
craters — round, dark, and fathomless. 
If he ever cries,” said the little man to 
himself, ‘‘ I’ll bet his tears are lava.” 
The small man’s heart was as tender 
as a girl’s before hardened by trouble. 
His face was all smiles, whatever his 
thoughts may have been. 

Hello ! we’ve got you at last,” he 


78 (Jlje |)urple of Cooe. 


cried; “ literally snaked you out. Come 
here and have a cocktail, one of my 
own invention; they call them ‘little 
Ikes ' — there’s fame for you. The men 
no longer speak of one another as hav- 
ing ‘ little jags ’ ; they call them ‘ little 
Ikes.’ My! but I’m proud. Now, 
Trux, none of your Miss Nancy airs; 
you’re going to have a cocktail, or lose 
a friend. — Here, waiter, bring three 
‘ little Ikes.’ Great Caesar ! that 
sounds like a demand for triplets — 
picture me such a father. — Here, 
waiter, bring three, but bring them 
one at a time, that won’t make me so 
nervous.” 

So he rattled on, and by his thought- 
fulness obviated the embarrassment 
they would have felt at their first 
meeting. Two or three times during 
dinner the conversation approached 
dangerous ground ; but, principally 
owing to Ike’s tact, it was brought 


Purple £1^1)1 of £ot)e. 79 


safely back to firm footing. Both of 
Edgar’s friends knew that he was a 
man whose confidence might be given 
but could not be taken. If he meant to 
share his trouble, against his rules, it 
would be when he thought best and 
not before. Edgar drank more freely 
at dinner than he ever had. He aston- 
ished his friends with his brilliant talk. 
From one topic to another he jumped 
with surprising mental agility, as if he 
feared a moment’s silence would be his 
heart’s undoing. 

Toward the end of dinner Edgar 
said, turning to Ike : Look here, you’re 
a man of a million friends ; I want you 
to look around and get me a steam 
yacht. I want to charter — ” 

“ I am not only a man with a million 
friends, but I have friends who have 
millions. I needed both friends and 
millions, and as I could not get both, 

I take the ones who have the others. 

6 


8o @:i)e Purple Cigljt of foue. 


You probably could not have found a 
man more especially fitted by Provi- 
dence to find a yacht for you, and, if you 
will pardon the suggestion, one more 
desirable to take with you on a cruise 
as ‘ guide, philosopher, and friend/ ” 
“Why, Edgar!” exclaimed Trux- 
ton, “ what on earth are you going to 
do with a yacht ? ” 

“ Nothing on earth,” laughed the 
other, “ but I hope to cruise on the 
water for the remainder of the season. 
As Lasca said, ‘ I want free life and I 
want fresh air,’ and though I do not 
^ sigh for a canter after the cattle,’ I do 
sigh for a change of scene.” His lips 
trembled as he spoke. 

“ Well,” interrupted little Ike, “don’t 
worry. I will say ‘ Presto ! ’ and wave 
my magic forefinger, and a steam 
yacht, puffing with pride, will await 
your pleasure at the foot of T wenty- 
sixth Street.” 


®I)e J)urpU £igl)t of Cooe. 8i 


After dinner they moved into the 
smoking-room and had their coffee and 
brandy. When they were seated, Ike 
turned and called the attention of the 
others to a cluster of men at another 
table, who were laughing and joking 
quite merrily. 

“ Now, they look happy, don’t 
they?” he asked. 

They are happy,” Edgar replied, a 
little sadly. 

“ Well, let me tell you something. I 
am the club confidant. A man goes out 
and contracts a trouble, just as he might 
contract a disease. He does not go 
to his regular physician, but he comes 
to me, his mental doctor. The first 
relief he gets is by telling me all about 
it; that does him a world of good and 
me no harm, and takes away from him 
that sense of loneliness that a man has 
when he goes about with his sin or 
his sorrow all to himself. Then I pre- 


82 @:i)e Cigljt of f otje. 


scribe, each according to his case, and 
he goes away feeling infinitely less 
depressed. When you are in trouble 
don’t tell every one, but confide in some 
trustworthy friend. My boys! you 
mark my words, it is the secretive man 
who commits suicide when the strain 
gets too great for one to bear. Now I 
happen to know — I’ll, of course, men- 
tion no names — that among those men 
one has an indebtedness to meet, a 
loss he made at cards, which is way 
beyond his power to settle. He owes 
it to a man already so rich that the 
money could make no difference either 
way ; but there is no fault so grievous 
in the eyes of the rich, on the part of 
the poor, as any uncertainty in money 
matters. I make no excuse for him ; 
there were many extenuating circum- 
stances, but they make no difference 
to any one but himself and to the 
friend in whom he has confided. He 


®l)e Purple of tot)c, 83 


has to look the bare fact in the face. 
There is another man in that party 
that I happen to know was refused 
yesterday by a woman he has worked 
ten years to earn the right to ask in 
marriage. He has been plucky and 
patient so long that perhaps he may 
continue so from force of habit; he 
will need both qualities for many a 
day. There is another whose doctor 
told him he must stop drinking or die. 
He has chosen drink. He says ‘ life 
to him is not worth the effort’ Each 
man is unconscious of the other’s 
trouble, and conscious Only of his own 
cross, but each one is the better for 
having told me. I tell you, boys, 
though you may not believe it, it is 
when you are in trouble that you’re 
in a crowd, it is when you are happy 
that you are alone.” 

During this long monologue Edgar 
sat looking at Ike with a drawn face ; 


84 Purple iLigljt of Core. 


as he finished he caught his eye, and 
though no word was spoken, little Ike 
knew his lesson had been taken to 
heart. 

“Look here, man,” Truxton began, 
“ if you keep on in this strain I 
shall go upstairs and have a good 
cry. Aren’t we going to the the- 
ater?” 

“ We are — we are,” replied Ike, with 
every particle of solemnity gone from 
his face. “We have to go now and 
sit in judgment upon the perfect voice 
and perfect limbs of Mademoiselle 
Katrina Van Arden. Come ; but let 
us be merciful as well as just.” 

During the play Ike cast many fur- 
tive .glances at Edgar, and thought 
that, though he seemed temporarily 
distracted under protest, it was doing 
him good. On their way home Trux- 
ton left them, but the other two 
walked on to Edgar’s rooms. When 


®l)e JJnrplc Cigtjt of £000. 85 


they reached them he said to the 
other : 

“ Come up. I want to talk with 
you a moment.” 

Ike was delighted, for he was sure 
his friend meant to tell him what was 
on his mind. 

Edgar seated himself before a big 
desk, hesitated a moment, and said : 

“ What was the amount of • that 
young chap’s gambling indebtedness 
you spoke of to-night?” 

Ike’s face was a study in surprise. 
At leng^th he answered, I don’t think 
I should tell you.” 

Better ! ” said Edgar laconically. 

“ Twenty-five hundred dollars.” 

Edgar wrote ih a book for a mo- 
ment, then rising, he said : 

Now you will oblige me by keep- 
ing your opinions to yourself. Here’s 
a check for twenty-five hundred dol- 
lars. I want you to tell your friend 


86 Purple Cisbt of Coue. 


that you know some one that will 
lend him this money on his note. Get 
his note at twelve months to your 
order, and give him the money in 
cash. Tell him that if at the end of 
the year he can’t pay, not to worry, 
as your party will renew. Tell him 
to ask no questions, but slap the 
money into the hands of his creditor 
as if it were a trifle. Now, good- 
night, and many thanks, and God 
bless you for the best little fellow in 
the world.” 

“ Please may I speak ? ” said Ike 
with mock humility. 

‘‘Only a word, then.” 

“Well, you must admit it did that 
fellow some good to confide in me.” 

“Yes,” answered the other softly, 
“ but the others were beyond help. 
Good-night,” and Ike went slowly 
down the stairs. 

For two weeks more Edgar kept 


®l)e JJurplc Ciglit of tone, 87 


himself constantly on the go. There 
was nothing within reason he did not 
try, to bring forgetfulness. He looked 
up a number of his old-men friends, 
but they seemed to him so hopelessly 
dull and far away. Their words pat- 
tered as harmlessly on the house in 
which his brain lived as rain patters 
on a roof, and the sound was like 
their conversation — nothing but a dull, 
monotonous noise. 

He was like a man dying of thirst ; 
his whole being was parched and dry. 
He had not heard a word of Mrs. 
Barnard since he left Newport, nor 
would he make inquiries. Occasion- 
ally he saw her name in the papers as 
being present at some festivity, and 
that was all — only that, strange as it 
may seem, he kept those newspapers 
in a secret drawer of his desk. Had 
he read all the names, he would have 
noticed that Overman was always 


88 QL\)c PiitiJle Ciglit of tone. 


somewhere in the list. One morning 
Truxton called on him. They were 
to lunch together. Just before they 
started Truxton said : 

“ Look here, old man, may I go into 
your bedroom and wash my hands ? " 

Without thinking, Edgar answered 
“ Yes.” 

As Truxton entered the room he 
perceived on the bureau the photo- 
graph of the handsomest woman in 
the handsomest frame he had ever 
seen. With a prolonged whistle of 
astonishment, he took it to the win- 
dow and held it to the light. 

“ Oh ! but she’s a beauty,” he ex- 
claimed. 

Edgar in the other room rose from 
his chair, white with passion ; he knew 
what had happened. 

A moment’s silence, then Truxton 
added in a pensive tone, You must be 
awfully fond of her.” 


®l)e ffiglit of Cooe. 89 


“ Why ? ” asked Edgar, as he 
clutched his chair to steady himself. 

“ Because you kiss her every night. 
I can see the marks of your lips upon 
the glass.” 

Edgar took a quick step forward, 
and then, controlling himself, walked 
into the bedroom where Truxton was ; 
taking the photograph gently from 
his hands, he said : “You are right ; it 
is the face of the woman I love.” 

His companion looked as a man 
might who had accidentally shot his 
friend. Stretching out his hand, he 
cried : “ Forgive me, Edgar. I never 
thought — ” 

“ Not another word,” the other an- 
swered, taking his proffered hand. 
“ It is hard for me to say it, but I am 
glad you know. Come, we will be 
late for lunch.” And he was glad. 
Truxton had not seen him so much 
like himself in weeks. 


90 @:i)e Purple Cigljt of iLoue, 


The following morning little Ike 
came to his rooms early and caught 
him before he had started down town. 
The moment Edgar saw him he knew, 
by the triumphant look of the man, 
that he had something unusual to say. 

Bowing low in the doorway, Ike 
said in an inquiring way : 

“ Mr. Edgar, I believe ? ” 

“ That is my name, sir.” 

“Well, Mr. Edgar, I have a Tittle 
surprise for you. I have waved my 
magic forefinger. I have said, ‘ Pres- 
to ! ’ and a steam yacht, puffing with 
pride, awaits you at the foot of T wenty- 
sixth Street. Captain and crew en- 
gaged and on board the yacht, all 
stocked with provisions and wines. 
You can start to-morrow. Did I hear 
you say anything about ‘Well done, 
good and faithful servant’?” 

“You did — you did, my boy ; you’re 
a trump, and I now appoint you my 


Purple Cigl)! of Cotie. 91 


‘ guide, philosopher, and friend ’ dur- 
ing the coming cruise, of which we 
will immediately proceed to make the 
itinerary.” 

For two hours they talked, consulted 
maps, and planned their coming trip. 
When Ike left, all was arranged, and 
they had decided to sail the following 
day. 

All that day Edgar was brighter; 
once or twice he caught himself whis- 
tling, and smiled grimly and wondered 
whether he was recovering, or wheth- 
er it was the anticipation of a change, 
the novelty of which would soon wear 
off, leaving him worse off than ever. 
About four o’clock he returned to his 
rooms. His servant met him and 
handed him a note. Edgar glanced at 
it with indifference; and then, as he 
noted that the address was in a wom- 
an’s handwriting unknown to him, he 
tremblingly dropped into his big arm- 


92 Purple iLigljt of Cooe. 


chair. Is it from her?” he mut- 
tered ; “ no — no, she would not write 
to me. What is there to say ? ” Here 
he tore off the envelope with nervous 
hands and read : 

“Dear Mr. Edgar: I am passing 
through town on my way to Lenox ; I 
shall be here only one night. Won’t 
you come up this evening and have a 
chat ? I know you like frank people, 
so I am frank with you. I want to 
see you ; come and take pity on my 
loneliness. Yours sincerely, 

“Rosalie Barnard.” 

Edgar crumpled the note in his 
hand and began pacing the floor. He 
was very pale, but his heart was 
thumping like a steam drill. 

“Shall I go? Nonsense! You’ve 
mastered yourself at the expense of 
every spark of vitality you possessed ; 


®l)e Purple iLigl)! of Cotie. 93 


why put yourself in the way of temp- 
tation again, and have to make another 
fight?” 

Here he seized his pen and wrote : 

“ Dear Mrs. Barnard : I am sor- 
ry that a previous engagement pre- 
vents — ” 

“ Bah ! ” he muttered, looking up, 
“ that’s too formal ; the woman has not 
insulted me, she has paid me a compli- 
ment ; there is no necessity to act like 
a brute,” and tearing up that sheet of 
paper he began again : 

“ Dear Mrs. Barnard : I am most 
unfortunate, but it so happens I have 
an unbreakable engagement for the 
evening. I hope, however — ” 

Now he stopped once more, and, 
rising, walked the floor. Her face 


94 ®l)e JJarple Ciigl)t of Cooe. 


and form rose up before him, her eyes 
said Come, her lips said Come, and her 
arms said Come. 

My God ! ” he cried, I must see 
her once more. I am off on the yacht 
to-morrow. It can do me no harm. I 
won’t stay long, but see her again I 
must.” 

Then he wrote : 

'‘Dear Mrs. Barnard: I will be 
with you at nine this evening. 

“ Yours sincerely, 

“John Edgar.” 

The moment it was done he felt 
quieter. He seemed to realize that 
Fate had taken him in hand, and strug- 
gling was useless. 

Then he became madly exultant. 

“ I’ll see her again ! ” he almost 
shouted, “ I’ll touch her hand, I’ll kiss 
the very air she breathes. I’ll hear her 


®I)e Purple Cigljt of £oue. 95 


voice — the only one that can make a 
hell a heaven to me ! I love her bet- 
ter than all that’s pure, all that’s true, 
all that’s best. I love her — damn you 
all and every one ! ” 

After this paroxysm Edgar buried 
his face in his hands and his big frame 
shook with tearless sobs. It showed 
the pent-up misery this poor man had 
kept locked up in the heart of his 
heart for so long. After the storm 
came the inevitable calm, and he sat 
quietly thinking ; but there was a light 
in his eyes that was strange to them — 
the same light that comes to the eyes 
of those who have been long in danger 
but see help coming at last. 

When Mrs. Barnard read his note 
she smiled. She noticed that the 
writing was almost illegible, the hand 
that had guided the pen was not under 
control. She guessed very shrewdly 
how he had looked when it was writ- 


7 


96 Ij^nxpk Cigbt of Cooe. 


ten. She had heard indirectly from 
several friends how he was changed 
in health, in looks, in everything, and 
she had timed her return accordingly. 
In regard to the yachting trip she was 
ignorant, and here she had builded 
better than she knew. The devil is a 
thoughtful person. She had had to 
use considerable diplomacy and finesse 
to prevent Overman coming to town 
at the same time. Lately he had be- 
come more importunate than ever ; at 
times he tired her ; but there was a 
sinister attraction in this man for her, 
and she kept him waiting against hope. 
She knew herself and her world too 
well not to prefer being Edgar’s wife 
than a surreptitious mistress to Over- 
man. 

It was one of those warm evenings 
toward the end of September that 
Edgar walked slowly up to Mrs. Bar- 
nard’s. Each boarding house was un- 


®I)e jpur^jk Ciigljt of Cooe. 97 


mistakable with its contingent of 
boarders airing themselves on the 
stoop. The clerk in some down-town 
house was having his little flirtation 
with the young woman who gave 
music lessons. The policeman looked 
warm and weary, but not too tired to 
receive with unctuous complacency 
the admiration of some of his old lady 
friends. Of the fashionable people, of 
course, none had returned to town, 
and so in some places it looked like a 
city of the dead. Edgar had taken 
off his light overcoat and thrown it 
over his arm, and, though he exposed 
a broad expanse of white shirt, no one 
noticed him, as they would have in 
New York some years before. He 
was quite calm now ; the agitation of 
the afternoon had left him a little 
weak and shaky physically, but men- 
tally he was steady and firm. 

Mrs. Barnard’s house was a tiny 


/ 

\ 


98 ®[)e JJnriile Cigl)t of iLooe. 


box just off the avenue. There are 
very few of them in the best part of 
the city, but, with her remarkable 
capacity for always getting what she 
wanted, she had managed to secure 
this one some years before, notwith- 
standing three young married couples 
had applied before her to the real- 
estate agent. She paid him a visit 
personally, and after a few minutes’ 
conversation, during which she never 
took her eyes off of him, he said : 

“ I am tired of always having busi- 
ness before pleasure, and as it will 
be a pleasure for me to gratify you, 
though unbusinesslike in this case, 
please consider the house yours.” 

A look of such ineffable gratitude 
swept over her face that he felt a 
thousand times repaid ; and only once 
or twice during the day did he realize 
that his self-respect felt a little sore 
and bruised. 


®I)e JJurpU Cifilit of Cooe. 99 


The little front drawing room was 
crammed with tiny rugs, small tables 
covered with wee bits of silver, and 
in every corner stood an ^tagWe, 
crowded with rare pieces of china 
and porcelain. The very walls were 
decorated and festooned with silks 
and tapestries. The room was so 
crowded that no clumsy man could 
walk with safety. These were all the 
remnants of her former glory in the 
large establishment she had first oc- 
cupied with Mr. Barnard. A soft 
light pervaded the room, made by 
two well-shaded lamps. 

When Edgar entered she was 
standing draped in something white, 
something soft, something clinging, 
the arrangement of which made its 
very modesty seem suggestive. 

She had heard that he was not 
looking well, but she was utterly un- 
prepared to see him look so ill. It 


100 ®|)e Cigl)! of Cooo. 


was not pity for him she felt, but 
pride in her own power. 

“ It was more than good of you to 
come, Mr. Edgar. I hope I am a bet- 
ter companion for others than I am 
for myself, but when I am alone I get 
so sad and depressed that it is really 
pitiful.” 

The moment Edgar saw her and 
heard her voice he knew he was a 
slave again ; but he meant to fight for 
his freedom. 

“ It was you,” he answered, “ who 
was guilty of thoughtfulness and con- 
sideration. I say ‘guilty,’ because 
they must be crimes, they are so rare. 
I had almost given up the hope of 
seeing you again, when your note 
came like a slant of light into a dark- 
ened room.” 

They were seated together on a 
divan, with a Himalaya-like range of 
cushions at their back. 


®l)e JJurple Cigljt of Cooe. 


lOI 


“ Have you been in town ever since 
you left Newport?” she asked. 

Yes.” 

What doing? ” 

“ Working and playing.” 

“ Which do you prefer? ” 

“ I seem to hate them both,” he 
murmured, not looking at her. He 
feared to trust his eyes. 

“ I am afraid,” she said slowly, 
** there’s a woman in the case.” Mrs. 
Barnard’s management of her voice 
at all times was something marvel- 
ously beautiful in the way it inter- 
preted her words. 

“ It seems hard on our poor sex, 
but wherever there is trouble there is 
always a woman. But did you never 
think, Mr. Edgar, that where a 
woman is the cause of trouble she is 
oftentimes its only remedy? Is this 
your case ? ” 

Edgar trembled ; he felt as if he 


102 @:i)c Ptttpk Ciglit of Cotje. 


were looking down a sheer precipice 
of a thousand feet, with rocks below. 
He edged away a little, keeping his 
eyes well covered. 

‘‘ No,” he lied, “ my case is not so 
interesting ; I am only a little bored 
with work as well as play ; but don’t 
let us talk about myself ; as a topic of 
conversation I am a failure.” 

“ I know of nothing I should care 
to hear about so much.” 

“ But when I say to you that, I am 
that I am, the story is told ; surely 
this is not exciting.” 

For the first time in her life Mrs. 
Barnard doubted her capacity to do 
with men as she chose. “ What is the 
matter with the man ? ” she thought. 
“ Has he too little feeling or too much 
control ? He loves me — of course he 
loves me ; but his soul won’t sanction 
the action of his heart. But his soul, 
forsooth, must learn to obey.” 




X 


®l)e Jpnrple Cigl)! of £ot)e. 103 

I am not one,” she said, who is 
forever descanting on the selfishness 
of men, and somehow I have never 
associated selfishness with you ; you 
are in all respects unlike the others. 
But to-night your unwillingness to 
please me by telling me something 
about your inward self, when you can 
see I care to know, is either selfish 
or an intimation that you prefer ac- 
quaintanceship to friendship. You 
see, Mr. Edgar, my life has not been 
a very successful one since — since — 
my husband died. I have been very 
much alone. Of course, I have had 
admirers among men, but friends — no. 
When I met you, I saw at a glance 
how different you were from all I had 
ever known ; how an atmosphere of 
sincerity and honesty pervaded you ; 
how your cleverness was without 
cynicism, and how your attitude to- 
ward women was one of tender defer- 


104 JJurple Cigl)t of Cooe. 


ence ; and I said to myself, ‘ That man 
shall be my friend.’ I have failed, Mr. 
Edgar, but that is nothing new for 
me ; it is simply another bead to add 
to the necklace of failures I have 
made for myself. This is a good deal 
for a woman to say, is it not? Per- 
haps too much. Probably your ideal 
woman would not have been so hon- 
est. But, come, enough of this. May 
I sing to you a new song Pve 
learned ? ” 

During this speech Mrs. Barnard 
had been slightly facing him, with 
either arm outstretched, resting on 
the cushions back of her. As she 
talked she leaned farther and farther 
forward, her fingers opening and 
closing ever more rapidly on the vel- 
vety softness of the pillows. As she 
finished she rose and stood over him. 

May I ? ” she repeated. 

Edgar could not trust himself to 


®l)e Purple Cigl)! of Cooe. 105 


speak, but bowed his head in acqui- 
escence. The piano was in the other 
room diagonally opposite to where 
he sat. Once again the waves of her 
pure voice shook the very founda- 
tions of Edgar’s whole being, and his 
senses swam in a sea of sweet sounds. 
He looked up and gazed at her ; she 
never turned, and he feasted his eyes 
like a glutton. As she finished he 
rose and stood by the fireplace, rest- 
ing his arm on the mantel. She came 
toward him and said : 

“Do you like it? Don’t you think 
it’s pretty?” But before he could an- 
swer she drew nearer to him, saying: 

“ Are you ill ? You look so pale.” 

“Yes,” he whispered, “I have a 
headache.” 

Slowly she raised her white arm 
and put the cool palm of her hand 
to his forehead. That slight touch 
of flesh to flesh pulled down about 


io6 Jpurple Cigl)! of €ove. 


him all the walls of his resolutions. 
Throwing his arms wildly around 
her, he kissed her passionately. 

“Marry me, will you not? For 
God’s sake, say Yes ! ” 

There was a moment’s silence. 
Then Rosalie raised her face to his 
and said with infinite piquancy, 
“ Since you have kissed me, I sup- 
pose I must.” 

Edgar stayed till twelve. His hap- 
piness was almost childish. He made 
her stand before him in every grace- 
ful pose. “ Here, rest your arm there ; 
place your hand here,” he would in- 
sist ; then he would gaze his fill, and 
cry with outstretched arms: 

“ And it’s mine — all mine ; please 
tell me so again.” He had forgotten 
everything ; all doubts, all fears were 
gone ; his soul was hidden behind his 
heart in shame; he was drunk with 
the velocity of his unreined passions. 


®l)e JJurple Cigbt of Cooe. 107 


Even Mrs. Barnard felt the conta- 
gion slightly, and humored his every 
whim. After he had gone, she sat 
and thought by an open window for 
a long time. Have I done wisely ? ” 
she wondered for a moment. “ Of 
course I have ; only fools doubt the 
wisdom of what is done and past re- 
calling. 

“ Dear me,” she laughed, as she re- 
membered a line in Story’s Cleopatra, 

‘ His love, like his rage, was rude.’ 
I had no idea he had it in him. He 
has more force in every way than 1 
dreamed. I very much fear he will 
not prove clay in the potter’s hands. 
Well — however. I’ve got a rich hus- 
band that won’t lose his money, who 
has a good social position, who is 
young and fair-looking, and who won’t 
disgrace mCy whatever I may do to 
him. This will be such a bright and 
cheery bit of news for Arthur Over- 


io8 0:i)e Purple fiigljt of Coue. 


man that I quite relish telling him. 
Poor Arthur, if he had only been rich, 
some things might have been differ- 
ent. I do wish my newly acquired 
John wasn’t so painfully good. He 
really oppresses me, though between 
us we’ll strike a fair average.” 

Here Mrs. Barnard went to her 
bedroom and slept the sleep of the 
conscienceless. 

They had arranged already about 
their marriage ; they were to wait 
only a month, and then have a quiet 
wedding. Mrs. Barnard was to go 
the following day to Lenox, wher« 
Edgar was to follow her in three or 
four days. He, lover-like, wanted to 
come immediately, but Mrs. Barnard 
meant to have time to dispose of 
Overman, so she made him promise 
not to come sooner. 

The next morning Edgar rose from 
the first night of heavy, dreamless 


®I}e Purple Ciglit of Coue. 109 


sleep he had enjoyed in a long time. 
As all that had occurred the night 
previous passed before his waking 
brain, and he realized what had hap- 
pened, he could hardly believe it. 
Although there was a great deal of 
purple in John Edgar’s love for this 
woman, there was also plenty of 
white. It would have been impos- 
sible for him to have loved otherwise, 
and it was plain to see that, now she 
was to be his, he meant to believe in 
her in every way. He had not fin- 
ished dressing when little Ike was 
announced. Edgar was standing 
before a mirror with a brush in 
each hand vigorously brushing his 
hair. 

“ Hello ! my fine buck,” he cried, 

Wie gehts ? — Comment qa va ? Good- 
morning. How is the captain of the 
Pinafore, you sad sea dog?” Then 
he' sang : 


no 


®l)e Ciglit of Cooe. 


“ The wind is sou-sou-E, 

And the wind is piping^ free, 

And the wind is blowing and the ship is going, 
And we are off to sea, to sea ! ” 

“ Don't stand there grinning like a 
Cheshire cat. Come in.” 

Little Ike stood in the doorway, 
and speaking aloud, but apparently 
to himself, said : 

“ It’s sad to see such an intellect so 
shattered ; so young too. I wonder 
where his keeper is? I hope he’s not 
dangerous.” 

“ Here, none of your impertinence,” 
cried Edgar. 

“Impertinence; do you wonder 
that I am astonished ? Yesterday, in 
this very room, I left a gentleman of 
my acquaintance, sensible and seri- 
ous — in fact, a little depressing at 
times; and the next day I find the 
same man, without apparent cause, a 
gibbering idiot. If the contempla- 


®l)e |)nrple Cig^t of tovc. 


III 


tion of a cruise has this effect upon 
you, what in the name of canvas- 
back ducks will the cruise do to 
you ? ” 

Look here, my bonny boy, yes- 
terday you had a little surprise for 
me, you remember; now to-day I 
have one for you. I am not going on 
that cruise.” 

“ What ! ” exploded Ike, as he 
bounded into the air like a mortally 
wounded stag. “Not going? Non- 
sense ! you’ve got to go. Everything 
is ready. I’m all packed — I — ” 

“ But I did not say jyou were not 
going,” interrupted Edgar. 

“ Oh, come now, you are daft ! 
How in the name of a cold bottle can 
I go without you?” 

“ Listen a minute. The yacht must 
be paid for any way ; the crew also ; 
the provisions on board also. I can 
save no money by letting her lie in 
8 


II2 


®l)e JJnr^jle of tovc. 


the East River for six weeks, and I 
want you to take her, ask a friend, 
and go for the: cruise we planned to- 
gether. I ask it as a favor ; I can not 
go myself.” 

‘‘ But, for goodness’ sake, why not ? ” 

“ I am engaged.” 

“ Well, you may be, but you don’t 
seem very busy.” 

Engaged to be married. Who’s 
the idiot now. Stupid ? ” 

Ike looked at him steadily, and saw 
that he meant what he said. When 
his brain had absorbed the fact his 
arms dropped to his sides and he 
slowly said : 

“ Well, I’ll be damned ! ” 

‘‘ Doubtless you will,” laughed Ed- 
gar. Then, stretching out his hand, 
with a suspicion of moisture in each 
eye, he asked : 

“ And won’t you wish me joy, 
Ike ? ” 


I 


9 ri)e {Jtirple Cigl)! of £otje. 113 


Then two hands came together 
with a bang that suggested the re- 
port of a pistol. 

“ Wish you joy ? Why I should say 
so ! God bless you, old man ! If 
you’re half as happy as you deserve to 
be you’ll do well enough — but let me 
see her. Haven’t you a photograph ? ” 

Then he showed him the one he 
had, and the two friends had a long 
talk, in which Edgar led him to sup- 
pose that his previous unhappiness 
was owing to his inability to earn 
the consent of the lady in question. 
He also persuaded him to use the 
yacht, as offered. 

As little Ike walked down town he 
muttered to himself : 

“ My boy, your brain is a plum pud- 
ding — without any plums in the way 
of ideas, of course. He was in love 
all the time and you could not see it! 
You might have known that nothing 


1 14 JJnrple Cigljt of fLovc. 


can hit so hard as a woman ! If he 
had lost every cent he owned in the 
world he would not have looked as he 
did. If such agony as he suffered is a 
preliminary to marriage, little Ike 
does not marry. He will continue 
to bump through this muddy world 
by himself.” 

Edgar wrote to Mrs. Worcester an- 
nouncing his engagement. So did 
Rosalie. She answered Edgar in this 
wise ; 

"‘My dear Mr. Edgar: My good 
wishes, of course, you have. It was a 
surprise to me, I admit. I thought you 
had decided to take Punch’s advice to 
those about to marry. It is impossi- 
ble for one person to say what will or 
will not make another happy. I 
doubted at one time whether Mrs. 
Barnard would make you happy ; but 
now you have chosen her, I doubt no 


Jpttrple £iglit of Cooe. . 115 


longer. I hope the rest of your life 
may be as satisfactory to yourself as 
I know your life up to this point must 
have been. A Quakeress once said to 
her husband : ‘ It’s a very queer world, 
and there are very queer people in it, 
and thou too, Reuben, are a little 
queer,’ and so I say to you. 

“ Yours cordially, 

“Sarah Worcester.’ 

To Mrs. Barnard she wrote : 

“ I was indeed surprised to hear 
your good news, for wonderful good 
news it must be to you, as it would be 
to any woman to secure such a man. 
It is useless to tell a woman so clever 
as yourself what a prize she has drawn. 
I hope, indeed, you may be marvel- 
ously happy, not only, my dear, on 
your account, but because hereafter 
all his happiness will be but a reflec- 
tion of yours.” 


ii6 |3ur|jle of tovc. 


It is needless to say this letter did 
not make Mrs. Barnard’s heart glow 
with gratitude. 

Arthur Overman came to the city 
that very day, but the bird had flown 
to Lenox. He wasted no time, but 
followed her on. He had become sus- 
picious of her, and though he had 
almost forgotten Edgar, every man 
was to him a possible rival. The inti- 
macy between these two had increased, 
of course, simply by seeing so much 

of each other, but that Overman was 

# 

any nearer to the gratification of his 
wishes can not be said. What these 
wishes were Overman hardly knew 
himself. He had always known she 
would not marry him, but he had 
hoped in a vague way that she might 
link her life with his for a time ; but 
even in this scheme he had little confi- 
dence. He knew her too well to think 
she would be deterred by innate good- 


Cijgljt of £000. 117 


ness, but the possibility that her world- 
ly ambitions might be utterly crushed 
would prove an insurmountable bar- 
rier, yet the idea that she might possi- 
bly become another’s positively drove 
him frantic. How many men have 
married not because they were des- 
perately in love with the woman, but 
because the thought of her marrying 
another was in its repugnance motive 
enough, will never be known. 

To be happy in married life the 
matrimonial yoke should be changed 
to an elastic band — when one pulls a 
little the other must give, and there 
must be room for the neck to play. 
So long as neither takes the ring from 
around his or her neck there is an 
even chance for happiness. 

Overman arrived late that night, 
but as soon as conventionality per- 
mitted he drove over to where Mrs. 
Barnard was stopping and sent up 


ii8 JJtttple Ci 9 l)t of Cooc. 


his card. She did not keep him wait- 
ing a minute. Her first question was : 

“ Have you seen anything, heard 
anything? ” 

“ No,” he answered, looking puzzled 
and a little frightened. 

“ Then come along with me ; the 
others are all playing tennis. We will 
go out the other side of the house. I 
have something to say to you.” 

Mechanically he followed her. 
When they had reached a shady place 
far from the house, the tennis players, 
and the possibility of observation, and 
where there was a rustic bench 
stretched between two trees, she 
turned and said : 

Now, Arthur Overman, I don’t 
want a scene. I know you love me 
in your own particular way ; you’ve 
told me so too often to permit me to 
forget. I have something to tell you 
that I have no doubt will make you 


Purple Cigbt of Cooe. 119 


miserable for a time, but you have 
got to hear it — there is no alternative 
— and if your love for me is worth my 
having, you will bear it like a man, 
and so make things easy for me. I 
am going to marry Mr. Edgar; I 
have promised him.” 

As this blow fell on Overman he 
winced ; then, clutching her wrist 
with a merciless grasp, he hissed : 
‘‘ You fiend ! You shall not ! Do you 
hear? You shall not! ” 

“ But I shall,” she said sweetly. 

And won’t you in the meantime re- 
lease my wrist ? It is more susceptible 
of pain and less strong than a gun- 
barrel.” 

Overman let it drop, but said again, 
with a voice as hoarse as a raven’s, 
“ You shall not ! ” 

“ Really, if you repeat that once 
more I shall think it the refrain of 
some old song you know. And now, 


120 


®l)e JPurple Cigljt of fiooe. 


dear fellow, do be reasonable. Why 
stand there croaking that you pro- 
pose to prevent an event that it is not 
within your power to affect in any 
way? I am going to marry Mr. Ed- 
gar, and, though I am very fond of 
you, I shall simply refuse to see any- 
thing of you until you behave. Don’t 
be foolish ; there are too many fools 
in the world already. Besides, there 
is not a woman on earth that is 
worth a toothache, much less a heart- 
ache.” 

“ In other words,” he said, “ now 
that you are done with me I am to 
take all my hopes, my life, everything 
I hold dear, and pass them over to 
another man ; and I am to do this 
without a protest, without a sign of 
emotion, in order to make, as you say, 
things easy for you.” 

Here Mrs. Barnard looked up in 
his handsome face and said : 


®l)e Purple £igl)t of Cooe. 


I2I 


I did not say I was done with 
you.” 

For a long time Overman looked 
into her eyes trying to read her 
thoughts. He well knew she was a 
woman who never permitted any 
plain speaking that might reflect 
upon her discreditabl3^ 

“ I have a plan,” she continued. 
“ Or, rather, it is not a plan — merely 
a suggestion. Go abroad for six 
months, then come back and see me.” 

‘‘Brilliant! brilliant! Go abroad, 
then come back and see you ! Thanks, 
thanks, a thousand times, for this op- 
portunity and its reward ! ” 

“ My dear Arthur, if you are going 
to have hysterics again go over there 
and roll in the grass and thump with 
your mighty fist the fair bosom of 
Mother Earth. But I don’t propose 
to have my nerves unstrung watching 
you. And while you are rolling in the 


122 


®I)e JJurple Cigljt of fooe. 


grass, remember, dear Arthur, you 
have often heard me say I do not like 
obtuse men. But this morning — as 
your intellect seems under a cloud — I 
will speak more plainly. This mar- 
riage shall take place. I do not wish 
to see you before that day, nor on 
that day, nor for six months after- 
ward. I shall know much then 
that I do not know now ; perhaps 
some of it you may then be glad to 
hear.” 

“ But, Rosalie, how can 1 ? I love 
you so ! Don’t send me away ! I 
promise not to worry you, but let me 
be near you. Were I so far from you 
I should freeze to death.” 

Her only words were, “ Will you 
go ? Can’t you understand it is your 
only chance ? ” 

“ But, Rosalie — ” 

‘‘ Will you go? ” 

And slowly he faltered, Yes.” 


®l)e JJnriJle Cigljt of tovc. 123 


Then she drew his head down to 
hers and kissed him. 

They got back to the house unno- 
ticed. Overman reached New York 
that night, and sailed two days after- 
ward. 

Lenox was in all its glory. Din- 
ners, tableaux, tub parades, tennis, 
flirtations, scandals, and autumn foli- 
age. How those everlasting hills, as 
they stand shoulder to shoulder be- 
fore the Lord, must chuckle at the 
little human midgets below that 
squirm and plan and fidget and wor- 
ry in their efforts to be always amused 
and excited ! 

Edgar had arrived, and he and 
Rosalie went everywhere. It was 
charming to see, when any question 
arose as to what to do next, the way 
in which she would look up into his 
face with an air of fond dependence, 
as if his word were law. As for him, 


124 ®l)e Jpur^jle iLiigljt of tovc. 


he sailed in a motionless sea of happi- 
ness where the wind was always fair ; 
nothing could equal his pride when he 
saw the respectful, unspoken admira- 
tion of the men, or when some woman 
would say : ‘‘ TVe no doubt she is as 
good as she is handsome; in which 
case, you have found a treasure.” 

Mrs. Barnard had been about social- 
ly a good deal, but until the present 
time she had been more in society 
than of it. Nowadays no entertain- 
ment was complete without her. 
Mrs. Worcester had arrived, and, as 
she always liked to have somebody 
“ in tow,” as she expressed it, was very 
kind to both of them. 

She gave them a large dinner when 
she first arrived, and sent for Edgar 
beforehand to hear his views. When 
he entered the room the dear old 
lady rushed at him with both hands 
outstretched. 


9 ri)e JJttrple Cigl)! of £ot)e. 125 


Now, there is no use,” she began, 
to say anything more about your en- 
gagement; you are going to be tre- 
mendously happy, of course, and if 
you are not it won’t be your fault. 
You won’t lead quite so domestic a 
life as you would had you married 
the woman I should have picked out 
for you ; but you have got the most 
beautiful woman I have ever seen; 
and, if she is not an actress, it is evi- 
dent she cares for you. Now, what I 
want to see you about is this: Who 
do you wish to take in to dinner ? You 
can’t have me — I am to be piloted to 
my humble seat by ‘His Darkness.’ 
I mean the Turkish minister; I call 
him that because he is the blackest- 
looking thing, for a man who washes, 
I ever saw. There will be plenty of 
pretty girls. Now there is Miss Edge- 
worth, a newspaper belle. How would 
you like her?” 


126 0:i)e JJurple jLigljt of Cooe. 


“ What is a newspaper belle ? ” Ed- 
gar asked. 

“ Oh, a pretty girl whose reputa- 
tion for being a belle has been made 
by the newspapers ; who receives no 
more, sometimes less, attention than 
other girls, but is always mentioned 
at great length by the reporters, and 
her picture always printed — partly be- 
cause she is one of the few they have 
ever heard of, and they feel on safer 
ground, and partly because her moth- 
er is more affable and accessible to 
newspaper men than other mothers. 
Well, you don’t seem to fancy her. 
How would Miss Fulton do ? She is a 
girl of innumerable virtues, and but 
one vice — that is, her religion.” 

Is not that a little startling ? ” in- 
quired Edgar. 

“Yes,” Mrs. Worcester rattled on, 
“ but it’s true ; her religion is to her a 
form of dissipation. She must have a 


JJurple CigI)! of £otJe. 127 


cathedral ; she must have subdued 
colored lights ; she must have an or- 
gan whose grand music rolls up and 
down her spinal column till she shiv- 
ers ; she must have every sense filled 
to overflowing ; then she kneels down 
and thinks of herself and dreams 
dreams.” 

“ I have never met a woman like 
that,” remarked Edgar. 

“Yes, you have, but you did not 
know it,” replied the old lady. “ Nev- 
er mind, there is no use talking to you 
about women. In your present condi- 
tion they are all the same to you — but 
one, and she is different. Come, and 
I will put you between two old 
frumps with your ladylove opposite. 
Then your attention won’t be distract- 
ed ; you can gaze and worship, and 
worship and gaze, throughout the 
whole dinner. Gracious heavens, 
what a tiresome world it is ! ” 


9 


128 0:i)e JJttrple Cigljt of £ooe. 


However, there was a girl, a Miss 
Stanton, present on that occasion that 
did attract Edgar’s attention from 
Rosalie a number of times. She was 
tall and slender, not thin, with a face 
of unearthly beauty. Her eyes 
seemed to be large peepholes made 
for angels to look through. Edgar 
could not help fancying that she had 
come from above, on some message 
of love, just for to-night, and to-mor- 
row would be home again among 
those more worthy to be with her. 
But the moment he caught Rosalie’s 
glance and smile his memory of the 
other was gone, and he reveled in her 
sumptuous grace. 

After dinner Edgar had determined 
to have a chat with Mrs. Worcester; 
but as he entered the drawing-room 
he found himself standing by the side 
of a Mrs. Courrington to whom he had 
been presented before dinner. She 


QL\)c JJurpU Cigl)! of Cotje. 129 


said in a chatty but very low voice : 
“ Come into the other room and talk 
to me.” And Edgar, slightly sur- 
prised, offered her his arm and went. 
When she had seated herself com- 
fortably she said : 

“ I hear you’re very clever, and, as 
I am bored to death, I am curious to 
know you. Of course, I have a dear, 
delightful husband, but he seldom 
scintillates, and of course I have the 
prettiest and best children in the 
world, but I can’t say they amuse me 
very much; you may. Besides, like 
every one else, I am crazy to know the 
man who is engaged to that ravishing 
Mrs. Barnard.” 

Edgar did not answer. When he 
realized that this woman had calmly 
brought him in there by a sheer ca- 
pacity to do what other women wait 
to be asked to do, he was distinctly 
nettled. He was quite well aware 


130 (Jljc f)ur|jU Cijglit of Cooe. 


that to the others in the drawing- 
room it had appeared as if he had 
purposely singled out Mrs. Courring- 
ton and asked her to come with him, 
instead of the reverse. 

“You must not mind,” she contin- 
ued, “if I am a little cross to-night, 
as I am suffering agonies. This dress 
I am wearing arrived from New York 
just before dinner, and is so tight that 
it took the combined efforts of three 
maids to get me into it, and I am so 
compressed at the waist that I feel 
like an overflowing cornucopia. Posi- 
tively, 1 feel as if I were bubbling 
out of my gown.” 

Just then in walked Rosalie on the 
arm of a stranger. Coming up to them, 
she spoke to Edgar : 

“ I am very tired to-night. I am go- 
ing home. May I ask you to put me 
in my carriage ? ” 

The look that the ladies inter- 


QL\i)c Purple £iQl)t of Coue. 131 


changed was as politely hateful as 
the laws of society allow. 

Edgar made his apologies and saw 
“ his happiness to her carriage. 

He came to the conclusion walking 
home that the existence of such a type 
as Mrs. Courrington was owing to the 
efforts on the part of rather clever 
women to make men too much at 
their ease. They want a man to feel 
that there are nearly as few restric- 
tions in talking to them as there 
would be in a chat with his club 
friends. They want him to know 
that with them don camaraderie'" is 
just as acceptable as sentiment and 
deference. They expect by this 
means to get men to talk to them 
who are too lazy to speak to other 
women who expect more. In this 
way they may get quantity, but they 
do not get quality. 

Edgar managed to while away two 





132 @:i)e IJnrple Cigbt of Cooe. 


very happy weeks. He had by this 
time regained his health and looks. 
Rosalie was all that a betrothed wom- 
an should be, and he was proportion- 
ately pleased. He often wondered 
what were the doubts he had pre- 
viously entertained in regard to 
her. 

He returned to town and prepared 
for his marriage. Rosalie had her 
trousseau to prepare, and came also. 

On the first of November they were 
married. Mrs. Worcester was re- 
splendent. She met little Ike for the 
first time, and took a great fancy to 
him. He, on this day, was the life of 
it all. He was every wheie, not still 
a moment. He drank the health of 
the bride and groom with nearly 
every one in the room, but, as he gal- 
lantly remarked. 

How can man die better than fac- 
ing fearful odds ! ” Rosalie attracted 


Purple Cigl)! of Cooe. 133 


some adverse criticism by dressing in 
white, like a girl bride ; but Edgar 
had insisted upon it, and in her snow- 
white gown she looked like a pink 
rosebud set in the hollow of a lily. 


PART III. 


Six months later found them resid- 
ing in a fine large house in Madison 
Avenue. They had passed a com- 
paratively pleasant winter. To be 
sure, Edgar was a little wearied of 
balls, dinners, and alleged gayeties of 
all sorts, but Rosalie kept going with 
nervous energy. They had, until Lent 
began, hardly spent an evening at 
home, and during that period of sup- 
posed fasting and repentance Rosalie 
had had some one in to dine almost 
each night that she had not dined 
out. Edgar had, mildly remonstrated 
but without success. It seemed to 
him that Rosalie’s disinclination to 

( 134 ) 


^nxpk £igl)t of Cooe. 135 


pass an evening at home alone with 
him was sad and pitiful, but he made 
a thousand and one excuses for her, 
and promised himself a happier future 
when the novelty of her married life, 
her house, and her new friends had 
worn off. 

In truth, in her heart she was already 
tired of him. She was tired of acting 
the part of a devoted wife. She knew 
that he did not understand her, and 
she was weary of trying to appear to 
be the woman he fondly imagined her. 
They had no tastes in common, and 
she found his very honesty a reflec- 
tion upon herself ; it grated upon her. 
If she were irritable he was always 
patient and forgiving ; not in any way 
exasperating, except to a woman who 
knew herself to be inexcusable, and 
also absolutely indifferent. She said 
to him one day : 

“ Oh, if you would only go out and 


136 Ij^nxpk Cii9l)t of £000. 


do something wrong and then come 
back and be forgiven it would be so 
refreshing ! ” 

Do something wrong ! Why 
what would you have me do?” 
he asked, looking both puzzled and 
sad. 

‘‘ Oh, make desperate love to some 
other woman — anything that would 
make you less spotless. There is too 
long a stretch of dazzling white in 
your character. My eyes need a few 
oases in the way of blemishes to rest 
upon.” 

Edgar bent downward and kissed 
her. I am so glad you don’t mean 
what you say,” he murmured. “ Some- 
times your chaff frightens me. Chaff, 
I think, is a miserable conversational 
trick at best, either implying more 
than you mean, or less, or saying what 
you do not think ; is all folly, and dan- 
gerous folly. It is much better to stick 


®I)e J)ur|jlc £i9l)t of Cooe. 137 


close to the truth ; then every one 
knows where you stand.” 

Rosalie would have liked to have 
slapped him. It was just the sort of 
speech she detested. Besides, he could 
not understand that what she had said 
she really meant. 

His love for and his belief in her 
palled upon her. She had at times an 
almost uncontrollable desire to shock 
him, and nothing but the thought that 
perhaps in the near future she might 
need his love and belief to stem a 
tide of scandal made her refrain from 
gratifying herself. 

She knew that to-morrow Over- 
man’s six months’ absence would be 
over. She had received a telegram 
from him that morning, simply saying, 
“ To-morrow afternoon at three,” and 
signing his name. 

She was alone when he arrived, and 
was unfeignedly glad to see him, but 


138 IJnrple Cigl^t of Cooe. 


when he made a motion as if expect- 
ing something warmer in the way of 
a welcome, she raised her hand before 
his face and cried : Pas si vite, mon- 
sieur^ pas si vite. And now, before 
you tell me of your travels, which I 
know you’re dying to do, and before 
I tell you how much I’m in love with 
my husband, and also before you tell 
me that in your case absence has 
made the heart grow fonder, let me 
give you a command. Don’t you 
send me any telegrams, and don’t you 
write me any notes that could not be 
posted on the fagade of the Fifth 
Avenue Hotel. I am not an inde- 
pendent actress living alone in a flat, 
I am not your mother, and I am not 
the girl to whom you are engaged, 
and I don’t propose to wake up some 
morning to find my throat cut from 
ear to ear by a justly jealous hus- 
band.” 


®l)e Cigl)! of Cooe. 139 


Overman laughed heartily. Oh, 
he felt it was so good to be with her 
again, to hear her voice once more ! 
How well they understood one 
another, these two ! 

“ I had no idea you had Irish blood 
in your veins,” he exclaimed ; but 
‘ she who must be obeyed ’ shall be 
obeyed on condition that I see so 
much of her, I have no need to 
write.” 

Never before had Rosalie in her in- 
tercourse with Overman been so gra- 
ciously abandoned. She teased him, 
laughed at him, led him on, and drove 
him back. She was in her element — 
controlling a man. After he had been 
there some time she rose, and, taking 
from a table a woman’s riding whip, 
began tapping him gently on the head ; 
then, as a happy thought struck her, 
she gradually wound it round and 
round in his hair until the lash was 


140 2 i:i)e {)ttr:plje iLigl)! of CotJe. 


firmly entangled ; then with little jerks 
and pulls she made him bow, then 
kneel, and in extravagant language 
acknowledge her sovereignty. He 
had hardly risen to his feet when the 
door opened and Edgar entered. 
Rosalie dropped the whip. He stood 
for a moment, looking more surprised 
than angry. Before he could speak 
Rosalie called to him : 

‘‘ Oh, do come here and help us ! 
Mr. Overman has this whip caught in 
his Hyperion curls, and I can’t get it 
out, and neither can he, and I am al- 
most dead with laughter.” 

Anything more ridiculous than the 
appearance of Overman can hardly 
be imagined. There he stood in the 
center of the room with this long 
whip dangling in front of his face, 
and his eyes blinking as the hair 
brushed by them, while this novel 
pendant swung slowly to and fro. 


JJurplc Cigljt of Cotie. 141 


Edgar stepped forward without a 
word of greeting, and with the ut- 
most dignity attempted to release 
him. Rosalie, as she saw the picture, 
found that it was too much for her 
sense of the ridiculous, and sat down, 
convulsed with laughter. 

After a few moments of futile en- 
deavor Edgar remarked very sedate- 
ly : “I am afraid this is impossible, Mr. 
Overman, unless you let me cut off a 
lock of your hair.” 

“Oh, do, John! do cut it off, and 
keep it in a locket ! ” And Rosalie 
went off into another paroxysm of 
laughter. 

The men paid no attention to her. 
Overman simply said quietly : “ I 
wish you would — it is the only way.” 

Edgar took out his knife, which con- ' 
tained scissors, and Overman was free. 

“ Oh, what a barber you would 
make, John ! Please, give up the law. 


142 ®l)e Purple Cigljt of foue. 


and become a barber! Won’t you 
buy a bottle of our hair restorer, Mr. 
Overman ? Only fifty cents a bottle, 
and a sure cure ! ” 

Before this could go any further 
John turned and said to the other 
man : I came uptown early to take 
Mrs. Edgar for a drive, and if you 
will excuse her I will ask her to get 
ready.” 

There was a little ring in his voice 
that made Rosalie quiet in a moment. 

How delightful ! ” she exclaimed. 
“ And thank you so much, Mr. Over- 
man, for your little entertainment.” 

Arthur somewhat sheepishly got 
his hat and stick, and bowed himself 
out. He muttered all the way home. 
He struck with his cane at an inof- 
fensive cat in such a vicious way that 
the poor animal, with one mighty 
yowl, fled for its life. 

“To look like a fool before your sue- 


®l)c Purple Ciglit of iLoue. 143 


cessful rival — yes, that's very pleas- 
ant. He laughs best who laughs last, 
however. I wonder what he thinks. 
He is a gentleman, that’s sure,” and 
so on to the door of his club went 
this man who might have been a 
gentleman himself, but was not. 

It was characteristic of John Edgar 
that throughout the long drive with 
his wife he never referred to the in- 
cident in any way. 

Two days after this meeting Arthur 
called again. He was in far from a 
pleasant mood. 

“ May I ask,” he inquired the mo- 
ment he caught sight of Rosalie, “ why 
you put me in such a ludicrous posi- 
tion before your husband the other 
day, and why you laughed so uproar- 
iously when you saw me there ? The 
unkindness of it amounted to bad 
taste.” 

“ My friend,” she answered, “ your 


10 


144 PuriJle £igl)t of Cooe. 

being in that position was an accident. 
I laughed because the situation was 
screechingly funny, and because — ” 
here she came nearer to him, “be- 
cause it was the natural thing to do 
had the circumstances been otherwise. 
People don’t laugh heartily when they 
are discovered doing wrong ; if they 
do when they are caught under pe- 
culiar but not conclusive circum- 
stances it is apt to disarm suspicion. 
I generally have a common-sense rea- 
son for what I do. I was in hopes 
you had discovered that fact by this 
time. One is taught to think of men 
as clever, but, you may have remarked 
it, they are never clever but in one 
way ; if it’s their profession, that is one 
way ; if it’s information and knowledge, 
which passes for cleverness, that is 
another way ; if it’s their ability to hide 
their stupidity, that’s another way still ; 
but generally clever and equal to all 


9 ri)c JJurple £igl)t of Cooe. 145 


sudden emergencies, as women are — 
never ! ” 

As Overman, after his visit — which 
he shortened at Rosalie’s request — 
went down the stoop Edgar came up ; 
they both bowed frigidly. Rosalie, 
who was looking out of the window, 
saw it all, and braced herself for the 
breeze she knew was coming. 

When he entered the room he 
stood looking at her for a moment, 
and then said : 

Pardon my interfering with any- 
thing you see fit to do, but may I ask 
whether you intend to see as much of 
Mr. Overman in the future as you do 
now ? It seems to me, that for a mar- 
ried woman to receive the same man 
two or three times a week in the ab- 
sence of her husband is two or three 
times too much.” 

She looked up at him in a disinter- 
ested, patient way, and said ; 


146 purple Cigl)! of fiooe. 


Were you speaking to me, dear ? ’* 
I was.” 

“ I’m so sorry ; 1 was thinking of 
something else. What did you say ? ” 

Edgar, with his voice a little more 
strained, repeated what he had said. 
Rosalie was well aware that anything 
repeated always loses point and force. 

When he had finished she looked 
quite pleased, and said : “ Now, John, 
this is quite a coincidence. I was 
talking to Mr. Overman about clever- 
ness — expressing my opinions, in fact 
— and here you come and give me 
another new idea — that is, that there 
are some sorts of cleverness that are 
more appallingly depressing than any 
sort of stupidity.” 

Here she paused for a moment, and, 
looking at him slyly, added : 

“ John, you are clever in a way, dear. 
-Now, as. for Mr. Overman, he is an 
old friend. of mine. I knew him long 


jpurple Cigbt of £000. 147 


before I knew you. (How a husband 
always hates to hear this statement !) 
He has been absent for six months; 
he comes to see me twice, where, had 
he not been away, he would have 
been here fifty times ; and yet you 
object. I like him very much, but I 
hope you won’t permit my liking him 
to interfere with my loving you ; but 
if you nag me about him, I am afraid 
it will.” 

This was all the satisfaction Edgar 
got ; but the iron had entered, and 
from this day he began to change. 

The following morning Rosalie 
wrote to Arthur as follows : 

I told you not to write to me. I 
did not say I would not write to you. 
It is a pity if women can not have 
some privileges denied to men. You 
are not to come and see me any more, 
except at stated intervals and on due 
notice. Now, don’t get cross. Wait 


148 Purple fiigljt of ffuue. 


a minute. Are you fond of pictures? 
I believe you are. How strange ! I 
am going this afternoon to see the 
pictures in the Metropolitan Museum 
of Art, at three o’clock. 

“ I was going to write you a longer 
letter, but it seems to me that I have 
written all I had to say.” 

They met, and continued to meet in 
this way a number of times. Rosalie 
never took her own carriage to drive 
up to the museum, but always went 
in a cab. Sometimes they took long 
walks. 

One day Edgar stopped at the club 
and joined a cluster of men at one of 
the windows. Old Dougan, who had 
always been a failure with women, 
never missed an opportunity to say 
or to imply something to their dis- 
paragement. When he turned and 
saw Edgar he cried : 

“ Hello ! Where do you keep your- 


QL\)c {Jurple £i9bt of Cooe. 149 


self all the time ? Busy making money 
for a lovely wife to spend, I suppose. 
Pity you are not as fond of pictures 
as your friend Overman ! At least, I 
imagine he is a friend of yours.” 

“ I am fond of pictures,” answered 
Edgar, somewhat stiffly, so there is 
nothing to pity. Why do you think 
Mr. Overman is ? ” 

Because,” replied the other, ** I 
have seen him up at the Metropolitan 
twice with Mrs. Edgar, and they 
seemed very much engrossed — with 
themselves,” he added sotfo voce. 

Without the wink of an eye or 
the twitch of a muscle Edgar an- 
swered : 

“You’re quite right, Arthur is a 
friend of mine ; and I have asked him 
to take her to the galleries on several 
occasions, as I have no time.” 

“ Gad ! ” interrupted a Mr. Weston ; 
“you should be a pedestrian, too. 


ISO |)tir^3le Cigl)! of Cooe. 


Overman and Mrs. Edgar are great 
on long walks in the park.” 

Yes, indeed,” said Edgar, “ I 
know they are. At the doctor’s sug- 
gestion, on account of my wife’s 
health, I asked them always to walk 
home. How difficult it is to find a 
man who can tell you something you 
don’t know ! ” Here he turned on his 
heel and walked away. 

When he had gone a listener to the 
foregoing conversation remarked : 

“I advise you men to be a little' 
careful how you talk to Edgar. 
Neither of you is a lion tamer, and I 
imagine when he is aroused he is apt 
to be savage.” 

Then some one asked that fateful 
question that begins, punctuates, and 
ends all club chats, “ What’ll you 
have?” and the subject of conversa- 
tion changed. 

Take five men in a club corner,* 


JJurpk of Cooe. 151 


enter the sixth to announce the sud- 
den death of one of their intimates, 
and this is what will happen : 

“ Heard about poor Gaylord ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Dead.” 

“ Nonsense ! saw him yesterday.” 

‘‘ Dead, all the same.” 

“Sure?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ What’ll you have ? ” 

Edgar was stunned by the discov- 
ery he had made. He was an ex- 
tremely sensitive man, and the 
thought that he — he, of all men — 
should have his wife’s name coupled 
with another’s ; that she should have 
deceived him ; that he was being 
laughed at behind his back, nearly 
drove him crazy. He walked straight 
ahead, noticing no one for two hours, 
then back again along the same street 
and road. There had always been a 


152 ®l)e Purple Cigljt of Cuue. 


morbid tendency in Edgar’s character 
that had prevented him from taking 
life very gayly — ^you might say he 
was morbidly honest. He had a posi- 
tive horror for anything like decep- 
tion ; his whole nature shrunk from it 
as one would from a loathsome rep- 
tile. He knew he should never have 
the same feeling for Rosalie, no mat- 
ter what happened. So he realized 
that the best part of his life had 
passed. He had naturally supposed, 
never seeing Overman at his house 
after his talk with his wife, that she 
had discouraged his coming there, 
and the fact that he had never forbid- 
den him the house did not in the least 
alleviate his sufferings. The wound 
that his love for Rosalie had received 
seemed to pain him less at this time 
than the overwhelming shame he felt. 
On his return he went directly to her. 
The decided tendresse she had always 


QLl)c JJurpIe jLigl)! of CotJe. 153 


entertained for Arthur Overman had 
grown of late, becoming something of 
a more serious nature, while her luke- 
warm affection for John had cooled 
in proportion. This change in her 
feelings made her a little defiant and 
reckless, but she never expected nor 
wanted any explosion that would alter 
her present position. 

The moment she saw John and de- 
tected a look in His face she had 
never seen before she knew some- 
thing was wrong. 

He was pale, and there was a metal- 
lic sound to his voice as he spoke. 

“ I understand from outsiders that, 
notwithstanding what I said to you the 
other day, you have been meeting Mr. 
Overman at the Metropolitan Muse- 
um, and walking with him in the 
park. I had expected you would 
have respected my wishes. Now, I 
want to say very frankly that there 


154 |)ttrple fiigljt of tovc. 


is nothing I am so proud of as my 
good name and yours ; and I do not 
propose to have either of them the 
subject of any scandalous comment. 
I therefore forbid you to see anything 
of Mr. Overman, either here or else- 
where, and you will kindly tell him 
so.” 

Rosalie’s face was white with fury. 
John would hardly have recognized 
her. For a moment she looked at 
him silently ; then, remembering that 
a lost temper means a lost cause, she 
threw up her hands in feigned delight 
and laughed mockingly. 

‘ Upon what meat doth this our 
Caesar feed that he is grown so great ’ 
in his own estimation ? This is amus- 
ing. You heard I accidentally met 
Mr. Overman in the Museum of Art. 
Where would you have him meet me? 
In some improper place? We were 
seen walking in the park. Where would 


®I)e Cigl)! of tovc. 155 


you have had us walk ? In Mott Street? 
I hope your informant mentioned we 
were walking on our feet, not on 
our heads. And on this startling in- 
formation you come to me and prattle 
about your good name and your fair 
fame, and other such nonsense. If 
you want to forbid Mr. Overman the 
house and his speaking to me you may 
do so. I will not. When a woman 
promises to love, honor, and obey her 
husband it is presupposed he keeps 
his senses. No one can love, honor, 
and obey an idiot. Now, John Edgar, 
take my advice. If you don’t want gos- 
sip and scandal, let the matter drop.” 

Edgar looked at her as he might 
had she stabbed him ; his heart wept 
tears of blood, and Love lay dead at 
his feet. 

“ I shall notify him myself,” he said 
at last, and turned to go. 

Wait — don’t go ! ” she called. “ I 


156 ®l)e Purple Cigl)! of £oue. 


should like to know what will happen 
if after your frigid note to him and 
your bombastic speech to me we still 
meet and speak. Will you then have a 
nice old-fashioned duel, and make your- 
self the laughingstock of every one ? ” 

His only answer was, The future 
will take care of itself.” 

After he had gone Rosalie sat for a 
long time thinking. She had the un- 
comfortable sensation of partial defeat 
in the discussion she had had with her 
husband. Never before had she been 
unable to manage him. Though she had 
kept her temper, she felt sure she had 
gone too far. But soon her old re- 
liance in herself returned. He should 
be brought back to his senses, he 
should be punished. It never dawned 
on her that her power over him had 
in any way waned. 

Going to her desk she wrote to 
Overman : 


Purple Cigljt of Cooe. 157 


“ I want to see you immediately and 
alone. Where can we meet? Send 
the answer to Maillard’s. Things are 
very squally.” 

She then walked down to Maillard’s, 
sent the note, and waited there for the 
answer. When it came she tore it 
open and read with astonishment : 

“ Come to my rooms now — third 
floor. I will be on the lookout.” 

Rosalie had never done anything so 
dangerous as this before, but there 
was no time to lose. He must be put 
on his guard, and they must formu- 
late some plan of action. 

Overman’s rooms were in a large 
apartment house where many lived. 
Ladies of all degrees were constantly 
going in or out. There had been 
nothing very wicked in her inter- ' 
course with Arthur hitherto, and it 
was the knowledge of this fact that 
made her bold and inclined her to 


15^ JpttrpU Cijgljt of fooe. 


look upon this step as a great adven- 
ture. She did not use the elevator. 
When she reached the third floor she 
found him waiting for her in the hall. 
Quickly he ushered her into his sit- 
ting-room, and no one saw. 

“ What is wrong ? ” he inquired, look- 
ing worried. 

But Rosalie was too much inter- 
ested looking about her, inspecting 
the pictures, examining all the little 
lares and penates of a bachelor’s sanc- 
tum. 

“ It is a wonder to me that men 
ever marry,” she exclaimed. “ You 
are certainly not rich, but you have 
here everything to make you comfort- 
able, and your independence as well.” 

'‘Well, never mind that now; tell 
me what has happened.” 

“ Well, simply this,” she explained : 
“ he ” (they always spoke of John as 
“ he ”) “ has discovered that we have 


®l)e Cigljt of Cooe. 159 


met in the Metropolitan and walked 
in the park, and he is as much upset 
by it as if he had surprised me — 
then she hesitated, and he added : 

“ Here, for instance.” 

“ Exactly,” and she laughed. “ We 
are not, according to his orders, to 
meet again under any circumstances. 
You are to be forbidden the house, 
and he is going to write you to that 
effect. In fact, my liege lord is on the 
war path.” 

Overman looked grave for a mo- 
ment. 

“What are you going to do?” he 
asked. 

“ Just as I please.” 

“ Well, what do you please?” 

“To see you as often as I like.” 

“ Good ! ” he cried ; “we will manage 
it somehow,” and he stretched out his 
hand and took hers, gently drawing 
her nearer. 


II 


i6o ®|)e JPttrple Cigljt of C 0 tje. 


In the meantime Edgar had gone to 
his club. Though a bright, warm day, 
he felt as if it were intensely cold. 
His blood seemed like iced water. 
Three times he began a note to Over- 
man, and three times he tore it up. 
At last he thought to himself : 

‘‘ What is the use ? I can’t write ; 
I’ll go and tell him what I want, and 
why I want it. It will be better in 
many ways.” 

It was at the moment that Arthur 
had taken Rosalie’s hand that the door 
was thrown open, and the colored 
janitor, with his back to the room, 
said : 

Step in here and wait for a mo- 
ment, and I will tell him, sir.” 

Edgar entered before Arthur could 
move. When he recognized his wife 
every muscle in his body became par- 
alyzed. For a moment no one moved, 
no one spoke ; slowly Arthur’s fingers 


JJttrijle of Cooe. i6i 


relaxed their grasp and her hand fell 
to her side. Had they been convicted 
of breaking all the Ten Commandments 
they could not have looked more 
guilty. 

I came,” faltered Edgar, his voice 
trembling so he could hardly speak, 
but looking Arthur squarely in the 
eyes, “ I came to say something to 
you — that, now, there is no need to 
say.” And with a face drawn with 
anguish he walked slowly away. 

The instant he disappeared Arthur 
sprang to the door and closed it. 
Then they stood and gazed into each 
other’s eyes. 

Arthur began nervously pacing up 
and down the floor, clasping and un- 
clasping his hands. 

“ The fool ! ” he exclaimed. Why 
didn’t he write ? ” 

Why didn’t you leave word you 
were out to the man downstairs?” 


i 62 Srije pnrijle Cigljt of Cooe. 


Rosalie asked, with a little shudder 
she could not suppress. 

^ Arthur stopped short in his walk, 
and, without answering her question, 
asked : 

“ What will he do now, do you 
suppose? Arrange to try and kill 
me?” 

“ No.” 

“ Kill himself?” 

‘‘ No.” 

“ What, then ? ” 

Just die,” she murmured. 

“ Nonsense ! ” 

“ But he will ; I know him. It will 
kill him. No, don’t touch me ; let me 
go.” And Rosalie tore herself away 
from him and was gone. 

There are no words to fitly describe 
John Edgar’s condition. The man was 
dead, though he walked and talked; 
the outward evidence of life he still 
retained, but the spiritual man had 


®l)e Purple Cigljt of £ot)e. 163 


died. He went home that night and 
found Rosalie pale but defiant. 

Do you believe me guilty of any 
greater wrong than you saw ? ” she 
asked. 

** No, or I should not be here,” he 
answered in a dull, mechanical way. 

“ Then I don’t see that any very 
great harm has been done.” 

“ All the harm that can be done has 
been done — for me. The rest makes 
little difference. To-morrow I shall 
place fifty thousand dollars to your 
credit. You may take a house any- 
where you please for the summer. I 
am going abroad. You will please say 
I have gone on business which it will 
take some time to arrange. There is 
no need for more scandal than ne- 
cessary.” 

You mean to leave me? ” 

Yes.’’ 

Forever? ” 


1 64 Purple iLigt)! of Cooe. 


Perhaps,” and Edgar’s mouth 
twitched. 

“ Is your love for me entirely a thing 
of the past?” 

“ As if it had never been,” he an- 
swered slowly. 

“ Good-night, then,” and Rosalie 
walked steadily past him. 

Good-by,” said Edgar, bowing low. 

That night she cried as she had 
never cried before. In fact, she never 
remembered to have cried but twice, 
and then from futile rage. 

No tears came to the burning eyes 
of the man ; all the springs of feeling 
in him had dried up. 

For the two or three days he was 
compelled to remain he never saw her 
once. However, he could not dis- 
abuse his mind of the idea that all the 
world knew of his disgrace, and to his 
morbidly sensitive nature this was ex- 
quisite torture. 


®l)e JJurplc Ciglit of £000/ 165 


He went to his club one afternoon 
to get his letters ; as he was walking 
out a friend called him over to a 
bunch of men, saying to the others : 

“ Here’s a man that will know who 
wrote 

‘ The chain of wedlock is so heavy that it takes 
two to carry it — sometimes three* '* 

Edgar turned a shade whiter, and 
answering, “ I don’t know,” left them. 

The question had been put without 
any intention that it should bear a per- 
sonal point, but to him, in his present 
condition, he took it as evidence that 
the whole world was laughing at 
him. 

He went to his office and drew a 
new will, leaving all to his wife on 
condition ” — but that condition was 
never inserted. He drew another, be- 
queathing her everything with no pro- 
viso. Then he sailed. 

All that summer he wandered from 


i66 @:i)e JJttrplc Cigljt of Cooe. 


one quiet place to another, avoiding 
every one. He would sit long hours 
in the sun, gazing and dreaming, over 
and over again, the six happy months 
of his life, the first part of which life 
had been cold and gray, then for a 
brief time warm and red, and now 
once again cold — and dead. He won- 
dered if his mind was not slipping 
away from him ; and in a measure it 
was. He had a way of sweeping his 
fingers along anything dusty, then, 
looking at them in a dull way, would 
mutter : 

“ Dust to dust, ashes to ashes.” 

Autumn came and found John Edgar 
frailer and more sunken-eyed than 
ever, but he did not die. 

One day he turned his face to the 
sky and cried : 

“O God, why can’t I die? Why 
can’t I die? Take me away! O 
God, take me to you ! ” 


(iri)e Purple Ciglit of Coue. 167 


Many a time he looked at his pistol 
longingly, and fingered it lovingly. 
One morning as he stood before his 
mirror he put the muzzle to his 
temple and smiled as he felt the cold 
of the steel. But this means of escape 
was not for him. He thought it would 
make trouble for her ; he knew it would 
create a scandal, and the world would 
surely guess the true cause of his act. 

As the cold weather came on he 
felt it more and more, but instead of 
going south, where it was warmer, he 
went farther and farther north. There 
was no imprudence he could be guilty 
of that he was not. He had never 
consulted a physician, and the one or 
two stray acquaintances he had in- 
voluntarily made, when they sug- 
gested that he should, were firmly 
rebuffed. 

December saw him in St. Peters- 
burg. One evening, as he sat in his 


i68 ®l)e Purple of £oue. 


apartments with bowed head and 
folded hands, he talked aloud to him- 
self, a habit he had contracted, as all 
people who are very much alone 
often do. 

“ God has forgotten me ! ” he cried. 

I can not wait. This is too slow ; I 
must work a little faster.” 

Slipping on his fur overcoat he 
went out. It was bitterly cold, and 
an icy wind raced through the nar- 
row streets. He looked up at the 
stars and wondered if one of them 
might not be heaven. Slowly he 
made his way to his stable, and, to 
the astonishment of his groom, or- 
dered out a light sleigh and one 
horse. 

“ Shall I go with you ? ” the groom 
asked. 

“ No,” replied Edgar. “ I prefer to 
go alone.” 

He drove directly out of the city, 


®l)e J}nr|jlc Cigijt of Cooe. 169 


and when he was beyond its myriad 
lights, on an unfrequented road, he 
drew his horse up and quickly slipped 
his warm fur overcoat off and pounded 
it beneath his feet. Then on again 
through the bitter night he drove for 
hours. The few people he passed 
wondered, as they saw the white shirt 
of his evening dress, whether their 
eyes had not deceived them. As he 
neared the city again he with incredi- 
ble difficulty managed to get his coat 
on. But on reaching his stable and 
driving in he found it was impossible 
to move. He could not get out of 
the sleigh. The frightened groom 
called another, and together they 
brought him home in a close carriage. 
He was put to bed. The servants 
wanted to call a doctor, but he com- 
manded them not to, saying : 

I am only a little cold ; I shall be 
all right in the morning.'' 


1 70 JJurple iLigljt of S^ovc, 


But in the morning he was far 
worse, unable to give orders of any 
sort ; so they sent for a physician. 

On the following day he saw the 
doctor standing by his bedside. 

“Am I very ill?” he asked 
quickly. 

“ Yes,” he was told. 

“ Shall I die if I make no effort to 
live?” 

“You must try,” the doctor said, 
with a look of surprise. 

“ But if I don’t ? ” continued Edgar, 
persistently. 

“ That would be fatal.” 

“ Then,” said Edgar, speaking with 
great difficulty, “ cable my wife, Mrs 
John Edgar, New York, to come to 
me, that I am dying, and I need to 
see her before I go. Beseech her to 
come.” He fell back, exhausted. 

Two weeks passed, and Rosalie 
came. Constantly while she was on 


QL\)c Cigljt of Cotie. 171 


the way Edgar would ask the doctor 
feverishly : * 

“ Will I be gone before she comes ? ” 

And he always answered : 

“ No, I think not. Were you as 
anxious to live as you are to see her, 
there might be no need for you to go 
at all.” 

And Edgar smiled. 

When Rosalie arrived at the house 
the doctor met her before she had 
even taken off her wraps. He looked 
at her critically, and thought what a 
furore her beauty would make in the 
Winter City. Then he spoke : 

“ Is the man’s death necessary to 
your happiness or to his ? ” 

I don’t understand you,” she said 
guardedly, and with a look of keen 
distrust. 

“ Do you want me to save him ? ” he 
asked. 

That I believe is your profession,” 


172 ®l)e JJurple Cigl^t of Cooe. 


she answered coldly, and, passing him, 
mounted the stairs. 

When she saw John she was shocked, 
and almost sorry she had come. Why 
bring her here to see him die ? It 
could do no good. She hated illness, 
she hated death ; it was all so sad, even 
when you did not care. 

But Edgar reveled in her presence ; 
his poor eyes followed her every- 
where. It was ofl the seventh day 
after her arrival that he began to 
sink rapidly. He lay for long hours 
in a sort of trance, and when he waked 
he smiled as if he had been away to 
see his God, and knew that all was 
well. 

At midnight, while Rosalie was in 
the room, through the great stillness 
of the winter’s night she heard the 
door bell ring, then silence, and 
the opening and closing of a heavy 
door. 


®l)e |)urple ILigl)! of Cooe. 173 


In a moment a nurse softly tiptoed 
into the room and whispered : 

“ There is a gentleman downstairs 
who says he must see you.” 

Rosalie’s heart gave a great bound. 
Glancing at Edgar, she saw he was in 
one of his trances, and, bidding the 
nurse take her place, slipped away. 

When she entered the room there 
stood Overman. Though half suspect- 
ing it, she was startled. 

‘‘ Man,” she cried, “ are you crazy ? ” 
Perhaps,” he said, advancing. I 
am in love, as you know, which is 
much the same thing.” 

“ Do you know that he is dying up- 
stairs ? ” 

- Well, I did not kill him.” 

Perhaps we both did. — No, don’t 
kiss me now,” as she pushed him 
away. “ I hate it.” , 

Just then the door opened and the 
nurse entered, saying ; 


174 ®l)e ^nxpk of £00^. 


“ Please, Mr. Edgar says for you 
and the gentleman to come upstairs ; 
he wants to see you.” 

Rosalie and Arthur were for the 
moment panic stricken, but Rosalie, 
recovering quickly, said : 

“ Go back and tell him the gentle- 
man has gone ; he came to the wrong 
house by mistake.” 

She returned in a moment and 
said, with a frightened look in her 
face : 

Mr. Edgar says that the gentle- 
man is Mr. Overman, and that he 
knows that he is here with you — that 
he has seen you both.” 

Seen us both ! ” 

‘‘Yes, while he seemed sleep- 
ing.” 

They were stunned. At last Rosalie, 
turning to the nurse, said : 

“ Very well ; you go back to 
him.” 


®l)c Purple Cigl)! of £otJe. 175 


When Arthur recovered himself he 
exclaimed : 

I won’t go.” 

“ You must,” she replied. 

“ Well, I won’t. It is nothing but a 
dying man’s craziness.” 

“ It is a dying man’s wish,” she said. 
And, taking him by the hand, led him 
to where her husband lay. 

As they entered, John smiled 
sweetly. 

Don’t be frightened. Come in, 
come near to me. I am not angry, I 
am only glad you care for her so much 
to have followed her here.” 

Then, as they stood on either side of 
him, he gazed first at the one and then 
at the other. 

Slowly and feebly he raised his 
white, wan arm, and, pulling Rosalie’s 
head down to his lips, he kissed her. 
Then, gently pushing his other hand 

along the bedclothes, he slipped it 
12 


176 ®|)e Purple Cigl)! of Ccoe. 


into the strong brown hand of Arthur, 
and, speaking almost in a whisper, 
said : 

“ I bid you love heKas I did.” 

Then this soul, having spoken, went 
back to its God. 


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planatory critique preceding each play adds much to tne interest of the 
volume .” — Boston Post. 


C OMEDIES FOR AMATEUR ACTING. Edited, 
with a Prefatory Note on Private Theatricals, by J. 
Brander Matthews. i8mo. Paper, 30 cents. 

The half-dozen one-act plays in this little book have been prepared 
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'J^HE LAST WORDS OF THOMAS CARLYLE. 
Including Wotton Reinfred, Carlyle’s only essay in 
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“ The interest of ‘ Wotton Keinfred ’ to me is considerable, from the 
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from real life, and perhaps Carlyle did not finish it, from the sense that it 
could not be published while the persons and things could be recognized. 
That objection to the publication no longer exists. Everybody is dead 
whose likenesses have been drawn, and the incidents stated have long been 
forgotten.” — James Anthony Froude. 

“‘Wotton Reinfred’ is interesting as a historical document. It gives 
Carlyle before he had adopted his peculiar manner, and yet there are some 
characteristic bits— especially at the beginning — in the Sartor Resartus 
vein. I take it that these are reminiscences of Irving and of the Thackeray 
circle, and there is a curious portrait of Coleridge, not very thinly veiled. 
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MLNES, AND ANLMALS LN SOUTH 
AFRLCA. By Lord Randolph S. Churchill. 
With Portrait, Sixty-five Illustrations, and a Map. 
8 VO. 337 pages. Cloth, $5.00. 

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M ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS; or, A 
Peep at the World from a Garret. Being the Journal of a 
Happy Man. By Emile Souvestre. With numerous 
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“ A suitable holiday gift for a friend who appreciates refined literature.” 
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“ It possesses a charming simplicity of style that makes it extremely 
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There Is not a line in this little idyl that is not as sweet and fresh as a 
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“A dainty, learned, charming, and delightful book." — New York Sun. 

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Contents : The Golden Rug of Kermanshah ; Warders of the Woods; 
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" One of the handsomest gift-books of the year.” — Philadelphia Inquirer. 

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C AMP-FIRES OF A NATURALIST. From the 
Field Notes of Lewis Lindsay Dyche, A. M., M. S., Pro- 
fessor of Zoology and Curator of Birds and Mammals in the 
Kansas State University. The Story of Fourteen Expedi- 
tions after North American Mammals. By Clarence E. 
Edwords. With numerous Illustrations. i2mo. Cloth, 

$1.50. 

“It is not always that a professor of zoology is so enthusiastic a sports- 
man as Prof. Dyche. His hunting exploits are as varied as those of Gor- 
don Gumming, for example, in South Africa. His grizzly bear is as danger- 
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and shoot than any creatures of the torrid zone. Evidently he came by 
his tastes as a hunter from lifelong experience.” — New York Tribune. 

“ The book has no dull pages, and is often excitingly interesting, and 
fully instructive as to the habits, haunts, and nature of wild beasts.” — Chi- 
cago Inter-Ocean, 

“ There is abundance of interesting incident in addition to the scien- 
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the big game met by the hunters, and the hardships cheerfully under- 
taken.” — Brooklyn Eagle. 

“The narrative is simple and manly and full of the freedom of forests. 
. . . This record of his work ought to awaken the interest of the genera- 
tion growing up, if only by the contrast of his active experience of the 
resources of Nature and of savage life with the background of culture and 
the environment of educational advantages that are being rapidly formed 
for the students of the United States. Prof. Dyche seems, from this ac- 
count of him, to have thought no personal hardship or exertion wasted in 
his attempt to collect facts, that the naturalist of the future may be pro- 
vided with complete and verified ideas as to species which will soon be 
extinct. This is good work — work that we need and that posterity will 
recognize with gratitude. The illustrations of the book are interesting, and 
the type is clear.” — New York Times. 

“The adventures are simply told, but some of them are thrilling of 
necessity, however modestly the narrator does his work. Prof. Dyche has 
had about as many experiences in the way of hunting for science as fall 
to the lot of the most fortunate, and this recountal of them is most interest- 
ing. The camps from which he worked ranged from the Lake ol the Woods 
to Arizona, and northwest to British Columbia, and in every region he 
was successful in securing rare specimens for his museum.” — Chicago 
Times. 

“The literary construction Is refreshing. The reader Is earned into 
the midst of the very scenes of which the author tells, not by elaborateness 
of description but by the directness and vividness of every sentence. He 
is given no opportunity to abandon the companions with which the book 
has provided him, for incident is made to follow incident with no inter- 
vening literary padding. In fact, the book is all action .”— City 
Journal. 


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n^HE WHITE MOUNTAINS. A Guide to their 
• Interpretation. With a Map of the Mountains and Ten 
Illustrations. By Rev. Julius H. Ward. New edi- 
tion. i2mo. Cloth, gilt top, $1.25. 

“ Books descriptive of the White Mountains are too few. Any lover 
of the Granite Hills will gladly welcome this valuable addition to White 
Mountain literature, both for the pleasure he himself will derive from its 
perusal, and for the good it will do in exciting an interest in the minds of 
strangers. So far as we know, Mr. Ward’s is only the sixth of such books. 
... If we were to attempt to classify Mr. Ward’s book, we should place 
it along with that of Starr King, for its sympathetic treatment of the sub- 
ject. It seems to us, however, to occupy a place not filled by any of 
them, and to share the merits of all. It is not a guide-book, and yet its 
systematic arrangement and the intelligent hints in its preliminary chapters 
give it a real value as a guide to the tourist.” — Rev. Ithamar W. Beard, 
in White Mountain Echo. < 

“ Mr. Ward’s aim has been something apart from the aims of those 
who have gone before him. He has sought to write neither a guide-book 
nor an itinerary. He aimed not at mere description, nor did he permit 
his imagination alone to guide his pen. His was rather a sympathetic 
and intelligent attempt to interpret for the contemplative mind the great 
lessons which these impressive elevations are capable of imparting to 
men. . . . Mr. Ward’s sympathy with his subject is keen and alive. 
He writes as one who loves Nature profoundly. The faith and devotion 
of such students we are assured that she never betrays. His in truth 
is a volume to carry along with one to the mountains and to open and 
read anywhere. It is also a volume to read at home. Rven those who 
have not in years looked upon those glorious pageants of mountain-tops 
and moving clouds will find it of great interest and of much practical serv- 
ice in recalling their early impressions and suggesting new ones .” — New 
York Times. 

“ The volume, although it covers familiar ground, is unique in its 
plan and treatment, and opens up a new and wonderful source of enjoy- 
ment to the lover of natural scenery. It humanizes Nature, or, rather, 
it brings the single individual soul into communion with that vast and 
universal soul which pervades the material universe.”— Transcript. 

“ Description of the perpetually changing mountain view (assisted by 
ten good photo^ra/ures), and interpretation of it after the manner of the 
poet and the believer in the D'vine Immanence, are the t'vo offices which 
Mr. Ward has so successf illy discharged that his volume will become a 
classic on the White Mountains.” — Literary World. 

“ It furnishes a great deal of practical information which will be of 
inestimable service.” — Boston Gazette. 

“ The book is replete with noble thoughts expressed in language of 
exquisite beauty.” — New York Observer. 

“The author is thoroughly in love with his subject and not le.ss 
thoroughly acquainted with it.” — New York Tribune. 


New York : D. APPLETON & CO., 72 Fifth Avenue. 


D. APPLETON & CO.’S PUBLICATIONS 



0[//SA MUHLBACH'S HISTORICAL HOVELS: 
New edition, i8 vols. Illustrated. i2mo. Cloth, 
per volume, $i.oo. Set, in box, $18.00. 


In offering to the public our new and illustrated x2mo edition 
of Louisa Muhlbach’s celebrated historical romances we wish to 
call attention to the continued and increasing popularity of these 
books for over thirty years. These romances are as well known 
in England and America as in the author’s native country, Ger- 
many, and it has been the unanimous verdict that no other ro- 
mances reproduce so vividly the spirit and social life of the times 
which are described. In the vividness of style, abundance of 
dramatic incidents, and the distinctness of the characters por- 
trayed, these books offer exceptional entertainment, while at the 
same time they familiarize the reader with the events and per- 
sonages of great historical epochs. 


The titles are as follows : 


Napoleon and the Queen of Prussia. 

The Empress Josephine. 

Napoleon and Blucher. 

Queen Hortense. 

Marie Antoinette and her Son. 

Prince Eugene and his Times. 

The Daughter of an Empress. 

Joseph II and his Court. 

Frederick the Great and his Court. 

Frederick the Great and his Family. 

Berlin and Sans-Souci. 

Goethe and Schiller. 

The Merchant of Berlin, and Maria Theresa and 
her Fireman. 

Louisa of Prussia and her Times. 

Old Fritz and the New Era. 

Andreas Hofer. 

Mohammed Ali and his House. 

Henri VIII and Catherine Parr. 


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THE PARCHMENT-PAPER SERIES. 

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jr)ON* T: A Manual of Mistakes and Improprieties more 
or less prevalent in Conduct and Speech, By Censor. 
130th Thousand. 

T\ISCRIMINA TE, A Manual for Guidance in the Use 
of Correct Words and Phrases in Ordinary Speech, A 
Companion to “ Don’t.” By Critic. 

'PICTURES OF LIFE AND CHARACTER, BY 


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JOHN LEECH, Consisting of Eighty Illustrations 
by John Leech, from the pages of “ Punch.” 

U MAURIER’S PICTURES OF ENGLISH 
SOCIETY, Containing Forty-one Illustrations from 
“ Punch,” by George du Maurier. 


^pHE PARLOR MUSE : A Selection of Humorous and 
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E 


NGLISH AS SHE IS SPOKE : Or, A Jest in Sober 
Earnest. Compiled from the celebrated “ New Guide 
of Conversation in Portuguese and English.” 


TJNGLISH AS SHE IS WROTE, showing Curious 
Ways in which the English Language may be made to 
convey Ideas or obscure them, A companion to “ Eng- 
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OCIAL ETIQUETTE OF NEW YORK. 
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Re- 


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Economically Applied. By a New York Clubman. 
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A useful manual, especially for young men desirous of dressing eco- 
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New York: D. APPLETON & CO., 72 Fifth Avenue. 



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